THE  LANI 


i  III 


*.   MOFFITT  FUND. 


LIBRARY  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 

JAMES  KENNEDY  MOFFITT 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '86. 


Deceived  ,189     . 

Accession  No.,   o & 8 4  1 .     Class  No. 


v-;  .     .       £> 


, 


THE  LAND  OF  POCO  TIEMPO 


BY   THE    SAME    AUTHOR 


A  TRAMP  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT.  12mo, 
$1.25. 

A  NEW  MEXICO  DAVID,  and  Other  Stories  and 
Sketches  of  the  Southwest.  Illustrated  from 
Photographs  by  the  Author.  12mo,  $1.25. 


W  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


THE 


LAND   OF  POCO  TIEMPO 


BY 


CHARLES    F.    LUMMIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 

1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW   YORK 


TTo 
EVA  AND   DOROTHEA 


82841 


CONTENTS 

i 

PAGE 

THE   LAND   OF   POCO   TIEMPO,  i 

II 
«LO"   WHO   IS   NOT   POOR, 27 

III 
THE   CITY   IN   THE   SKY, 55 

IV 
THE    PENITENT   BROTHERS, 77 

V 
THE    CHASE   OF   THE   CHONGO,       ....     109 

VI 
THE   WANDERINGS   OF   COCHITI,    ....     131 

VII 
THE    APACHE    WARRIOR,     ....  .155 


x  CONTENTS 

VIII 

PAGE 

ON    THE   TRAIL   OF   THE    RENEGADES,        .        .     187 

IX  * 
NEW   MEXICAN   FOLK-SONGS, 215 

X 
A   DAY   OF   THE   SAINTS, 251 

XI 
THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE   FORGOTTEN,      .        .     283 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

[FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY  THE  AUTHOR.] 
SUN,    SILENCE,  AND   ADOBE, Frontispiece 

PAGE 

A  PUEBLO   CLOTHO   SPINNING   IN  THE   SUN,         ...  8 

THE    CARRETA, 12 

PUEBLO   GIRL  WINNOWING   BEANS, 22 

THE  GENIUS   OF   THE   ADOBE,             26 

TIGUA  YOUTH,  ISLETA, 30 

INTERIOR   OF   A   PUEBLO   HOUSE    (ISLETA),                              .  35 

A   TIGUA  GIRL, 42 

A  HOUSE   AT   SANTO   DOMINGO,         ......  47 

TIGUA  GIRLS,             51 

A   PUEBLO   NIMROD, -53 

THE  EAST  CLIFF  OF  ACOMA, 59 

A  GLIMPSE   OF   ACOMA, 71 

ACOMA  TYPES, 73 

THE   PENITENTE    PROCESSION, 89 

CRUCIFIXION   OF   A   PENITENTE,        ...  101 


\ 


Xll  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

CHASE    OF   THE    CHONGO,             115 

A   WATCHER   OF   THE    RACE, 121 

DESIDERIO   ISLETA,   WAR   CAPTAIN  OF  ISLETA,  .        .129 

THE   STONE    PUMAS   OF    THE    POTRERO    DE    LAS  VACAS,  135 

THE   TYU-ON-YI— CACIQUES, 137 

THE   TYU-ON-YI— WALLED   CAVE-ROOMS,          .        .         .        .140 

THE   TYU-ON-YI— SECOND-   AND   THIRD-STORY   CAVES,      .  142 

JOSE  HILARIO  MONTOYA,  GOVERNOR  PUEBLO  OF  COCHITI,  144 

THE   CUEVA   PINTADA, 150 

THE    OLDEST   OF   THE    QUERES, 153 

THE   APACHE   WARRIOR,  VICTORIO, 160 

A   DAY   OF   THE    SAINTS,   ACOMA, 255 

DANCE   OF   THE   AYASH-TYU-COTZ,  COCHITI,         .         .         .261 

TAGS   ON  A   FEAST-DAY, 271 

A   PUEBLO   CHURCH   AT   LACUNA, 275 

A    QUIVIRA   MYTH-MAKER, 287 

ABO— THE    WESTERN  WALL, 294 

CUARAI  FROM   THE    SOUTHWEST, 297 

INTERIOR   OF   THE   RUIN  OF  CUARAI, 298 

TABIRA— REAR   ENTRANCE,  WITH   CARVED   LINTEL,  .        .  301 

TABIRA— MAIN  ENTRANCE   TO   THE  GREAT   HALL,     .         .  304 

TABIRA— GROUND   PLAN, 308 


THE   LAND   OF   POCO  TIEMPO 


THE  LAND  OF   POCO  TIEMPO 


SUN,  silence,  and  adobe — that  is  New  Mexico  in 
three  words.  If  a  fourth  were  to  be  added,  it 
need  be  only  to  clinch  the  three.  It  is  the  Great 
American  Mystery — the  National  Rip  Van  Winkle— 
the  United  States  which  is  not  United  States.  Here 
is  the  land  of  poco  tiempo — the  home  of  "  Pretty 
Soon."  Why  hurry  with  the  hurrying  world  ?  The 
"  Pretty  Soon "  of  New  Spain  is  better  than  the 
"  Now  !  Now  !  "  of  the  haggard  States.  The  opiate 
sun  soothes  to  rest,  the  adobe  is  made  to  lean 
against,  the  hush  of  day-long  noon  would  not  be 
broken.  Let  us  not  hasten — manana  will  do.  Bet- 
ter still,  pasado  manana. 

New  Mexico  is  the  anomaly  of  the  Republic.  It  is 
a  century  older  in  European  civilization  than  the  rest, 
and  several  centuries  older  still  in  a  happier  semi- 
civilization  of  its  own.  It  had  its  little  walled  cities  of 
stone  before  Columbus  had  grandparents-to-be  ;  and 
it  has  them  yet.  The  most  incredible  pioneering  the 
world  has  ever  seen  overran  it  with  the  zeal  of  a 
prairie-fire  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  ;  and 
the  embers  of  that  unparalleled  blaze  of  exploration 
are  not  quite  dead  to-day.  The  most  superhuman 
marches,  the  most  awful  privations,  the  most  devoted 
heroism,  the  most  unsleeping  vigilance  wrested  this 


4  THE  LAND    OF  POCO   TIEMPO 

bare,  brown  land  to  the  world  ;  and  having  wrested 
it,  went  to  sleep.  The  winning  was  the  wakefullest 
in  history — the  after-nap  eternal.  It  never  has  wak- 
ened— one  does  not  know  that  it  ever  can.  Nature 
herself  does  little  but  sleep,  here.  A  few  semi- 
bustling  American  towns  wart  the  Territorial  map. 
It  is  pockmarked  with  cattle-ranches  and  mines, 
where  Experience  has  wielded  his  costly  birch  over 
millionaire  pupils  from  the  East  and  from  abroad. 
But  the  virus  never  reached  the  blood — the  pits  are 
only  skin-deep.  The  Saxon  excrescences  are  already 
asleep  too.  The  cowboy  is  a  broken  idol.  He  no 
longer  "  shoots  up  the  town,"  nor  riddles  heels  reluc- 
tant for  the  dance.  His  day  is  done  ;  and  so  is  that 
of  the  argonaut.  They  both  are  with  us,  but  their 
lids  are  heavy.  And  around  them  is  New  Spain 
again,  dreamy  as  ever  after  their  rude  but  short-lived 
nudging.  The  sheep — which  feed  New  Mexico- 
doze  again  on  the  mesas,  no  longer  routed  by  their 
long-horned  foes ;  and  where  sheep  are,  is  rest.  The 
brown  or  gray  adobe  hamlets  of  the  descendants  of 
those  fiery  souls  who  wreaked  here  a  commonwealth 
before  the  Saxon  fairly  knew  there  was  a  New 
World  ;  the  strange  terraced  towns  of  the  aboriginal 
pioneers  who  out-Spaniarded  the  Spaniards  by  un- 
known centuries  ;  the  scant  leaven  of  incongruous 
American  brick — all  are  under  the  spell.  And  the 
abrupt  mountains,  the  echoing,  rock-walled  canons, 
the  sunburnt  mesas,  the  streams  bankrupt  by  their 
own  shylock  sands,  the  gaunt,  brown,  treeless  plains, 
the  ardent  sky,  all  harmonize  with  unearthly  una- 
nimity. 

"  Picturesque  "  is  a  tame  word  for  it.      It  is  a  pict- 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  5 

ure,  a  romance,  a  dream,  all  in  one.  It  is  our  one 
corner  that  is  the  sun's  very  own.  Here  he  has  had 
his  way,  and  no  discrepancy  mars  his  work.  It  is  a  ~ 
land  of  quaint,  swart  faces,  of  Oriental  dress  and  un- 
spelled  speech  ;  a  land  where  distance  is  lost,  and  the 
eye  is  a  liar ;  a  land  of  ineffable  lights  and  sudden 
shadows  ;  of  polytheism  and  superstition,  where  the 
rattlesnake  is  a  demigod,  and  the  cigarette  a  means 
of  grace,  and  where  Christians  mangle  and  crucify 
themselves — the  heart  of  Africa  beating  against  the 
ribs  of  the  Rockies. 

There  are  three  typical  races  in  New  Mexico  now 
— for  it  would  be  wrong  to  include  the  ten  per  cent. 
"  American  "  interpolation  as  a  type.  With  them  I 
have  here  nothing  to  do.  They  are  potential,  but  not 
picturesque.  Besides  them  and  around  them  are  the 
real  autocthones,  a  quaint  ethnologic  trio.  First,  the  -. 
nine  thousand  Pueblo  Indians — peaceful,  fixed,  house- 
dwelling  and  home-loving  tillers  of  the  soil  ;  good 
Catholics  in  the  churches  they  have  builded  with  a 
patience  infinite  as  that  of  the  Pyramids  ;  good 
pagans  everywhere  else.  Then  the  ten  thousand 
Navajo  Indians — whose  other  ten  thousand  is  in  Ari- 
zona --  sullen,  nomad,  horse-loving,  horse-stealing, 
horse-living  vagrants  of  the  saddle  ;  pagans  first,  last, 
and  all  the  time,  and  inventors  of  the  mother-in-law 
joke  gray  centuries  before  the  civilized  world  awoke 
to  it.  Last  of  all,  the  Mexicans  ;  in-bred  and  isola- 
tion-shrunken descendants  of  the  Castilian  world- 
finders  ;  living-  almost  as  much  against  the  house  as 

O  c> 

in  it ;  ignorant  as  slaves,  and  more  courteous  than 
kings ;  poor  as  Lazarus,  and  more  hospitable  than 
Croesus  ;  Catholics  from  A  to  Izzard,  except  when 


6  THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 

they  take  occasion  to  be  Penitentes — and  even  then 
fighting  to  bring  their  matted  scourges  and  bloody 
crosses  into  the  church  which  bars  its  door  to  them. 
The  Navajos  have  neither  houses  nor  towns  ;  the 
Pueblos  have  nineteen  compact  little  "  cities ;  "  and 
the  Mexicans  several  hundred  villages,  a  part  of 
which  are  shared  by  the  invader.  The  few  towns 
of  undiluted  gringo  hardly  count  in  summing  up  the 
Territory  of  three  hundred  by  four  hundred  miles. 

If  New  Mexico  lacks  the  concentration  of  natural 
picturesqueness  to  be  found  elsewhere,  it  makes  up 
in  universality.  There  are  almost  no  waterfalls,  and 
not  a  river  worthy  of  the  name.  Canons  are  rare, 
and  inferior  to  those  of  Colorado  and  the  farther 
Southwest.  The  mountains  are  largely  skyward 
miles  of  savage  rock ;  and  forests  are  far  between. 
But  every  landscape  is  characteristic,  and  even  beau- 
tiful— with  a  weird,  unearthly  beauty,  treacherous  as 
the  flowers  of  its  cacti.  Most  of  New  Mexico,  most 
of  the  year,  is  an  indescribable  harmony  in  browns 
and  grays,  over  which  the  enchanted  light  of  its  blue 
skies  casts  an  eternal  spell.  Its  very  rocks  are  unique 
— only  Arizona  shares  those  astounding  freaks  of 
form  and  color  carved  by  the  scant  rains  and  more 
liberal  winds  of  immemorial  centuries,  and  towering 
across  the  bare  land  like  the  milestones  of  forgotten 
giants.  The  line  of  huge  buttes  of  blood-red  sand- 
stone which  stretches  from  Mt.  San  Mateo  to  the  Lit- 
tle Colorado,  including  the  "  Navajo  Church  "  and  a 
thousand  minor  wonders,  is  typically  New  Mexican. 
The  Navajo  Reservation — which  lies  part  in  this 
Territory  and  part  in  Arizona — is  remarkably  pictu- 
resque throughout,  with  its  broad  plains  hemmed  by 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  7 

giant  mesas  split  with  wild  canons.  So  are  the  re- 
gions about  Jemez,  Cochiti,  Taos,  Santa  Fe,  Acoma, 
and  a  few  others. 

The  most  unique  pictures  in  new  Mexico  are  to  be 
found  among  its  unique  Pueblos.  Their  quaint  ter- 
raced architecture  is  the  most  remarkable  on  the  con- 
tinent ;  and  there  is  none  more  picturesque  in  the 
world.  It  remains  intact  only  in  the  remoter  pueblos 
— those  along  the  Rio  Grande  have  been  largely 
Mexicanized  into  one-storied  tameness.  Laguna,  on 
the  Atlantic  &  Pacific  Railroad,  has  some  three-story 
terraced  houses  still.  Acoma,  on  its  dizzy  island- 
cliff,  twenty  miles  southwest,  is  all  three-storied  ;  and 
Taos,  in  its  lovely,  lonely  valley  far  to  the-  north,  is 
two  great  pyramid-tenements  of  six  stories. 

And  the  Pueblos — they  are  picturesque  anywhere 
and  always,  but  particularly  in  their  dances,  races,  and 
other  ceremonials.  These  are  Indians  who  are  neither 
poor  nor  naked  ;  Indians  who  feed  themselves,  and 
ask  no  favors  of  Washington  ;  Indians  who  have 
been  at  peace  for  two  centuries,  and  fixed  residents 
for  perhaps  a  millennium  ;  Indians  who  were  farmers 
and  irrigators  and  six-story-house  builders  before  a 
New  World  had  been  beaten  through  the  thick  skull 
of  the  Old  ;  Indians  who  do  not  make  pack-beasts  of 
their  squaws — and  who  have  not  "  squaws,"  save  in 
the  vocabulary  of  less-bred  barbarians.  They  had 
nearly  a  hundred  republics  in  America  centuries  be- 
fore the  American  Republic  was  conceived ;  and  they 
have  maintained  their  ancient  democracy  through  all 
the  ages,  unshamed  by  the  corruption  of  a  voter,  the 
blot  of  a  defalcation  or  malfeasance  in  office.  They 
are,  under  the  solemn  pledge  of  our  Government  in 


8 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 


the  treaty  of  Guadalupe  Hidalgo,  citizens  ;  and  are  the 
most  flagrantly  wronged  in  our  country.  Their  nu- 
merous sacred  dances  are  by  far  the  most  picturesque 
sights  in  America,  and  the  least  viewed  by  Ameri- 
cans, who  never  found  anything  more  striking  abroad. 
The  mythology  of  Greece  and  Rome  is  less  than 


A   PUEBLO   CLOTHO   SPINNING   IN    THE   SUN. 

theirs  in  complicated  comprehensiveness,  and  they 
are  a  more  interesting  ethnologic  study  than  the 
tribes  of  inner  Africa,  and  less  known  of  by  their 
white  countrymen. 

The  flat  Mexican  towns  themselves  are  picturesque 
• — for  the  ardent  sun  of  the  Southwest  makes  even  an 
adobe  beautiful  when  it  can  pick  it  out  in  violent  an- 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  9 

titheses  of  light  and  shade.  Their  people — ragged 
courtiers,  unlettered  diplomats — are  fast  losing  their 
pictorial  possibilities.  The  queue  and  the  knee- 
breeches,  the  home-woven  poncho,  with  a  hole  in  the 
centre  whereby  the  owner  may  thrust  his  head 
through  the  roof  of  his  combined  umbrella  and  over- 
coat, are  passed  or  passing  away  ;  and  in  their  place 
have  come  the  atrocities  of  the  Hebrew  clo'man. 
But  the  faces — they  are  New  Spain  still. 

New  Mexico,  like  the  dearest  women,  cannot  be 
adequately  photographed.  One  can  reproduce  the 
features,  but  not  the  expression — the  landmarks,  but 
not  the  wondrous  light  which  is  to  the  bare  South- 
west the  soul  that  glorifies  a  plain  face.  The  positive 
is  an  enchantment,  the  negative  a  disappointment. 
One  cannot  focus  upon  sunlight  and  silence;  and 
without  them  the  adobe  is  a  clod.  Description  of  the 
atmospheric  effects  of  the  Southwest  is  the  most 
hopeless  wall  against  which  language  ever  butted  its 
ineffectual  head.  "The  light  that  never  was  on  sea 
or  land  "  spends  itself  upon  the  adobe  and  the  chap- 
paro.  Under  that  ineffable  alchemy  of  the  sky,  mud 
turns  ethereal,  and  the  desert  is  a  revelation.  It  is 
Egypt,  with  every  rock  a  sphinx,  every  peak  a  pyra- 
mid. 

Life  is  the  least  vital  feature  of  New  Mexico.  The 
present  is  a  husk — the  past  was  a  romance  and  a 
glory.  The  Saxon  invasion  which  came  with  the 
railroad  has  reacted  almost  to  syncope.  It  is  in  lit- 
tle hope  of  revivification  until  the  settlement  of  land 
titles  shall  be  effected,  and  a  national  shame  of  forty 
years  effaced.  The  native,  stirred  to  unwonted  per- 
spiration by  the  one-time  advent  of  the  prodigal  peso. 


10  THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 

has  dropped  back  to  ease  with  dignity — dignity  in 
rags,  mayhap,  but  always  dignity.  To  the  old  ways 
he  has  not  wholly  returned — just  to  the  old  joy  of 
living,  the  broad  content  of  sitting  and  remembering 
that  one  has  lungs  for  this  ozone  and  eyes  for  this 
day-dream.  I  would  not  be  understood  that  it  is  idle.- 
ness.  There  is  work  ;  but  such  unfatal  work  !  The 
paisano  has  learned  to  live  even  while  he  works — 
wherein  he  is  more  wise  than  we,  who  slave  away 
youth  (which  is  life)  in  chasing  that  which  we  are 
past  enjoyment  of  when  we  overtake  it.  He  tills  his 
fields  and  tends  his  herds  ;  but  there  is  no  unseemly 
haste,  no  self-tripping  race  for  wealth.  Lo  que  puede 
—that  which  can  be — is  enough.  It  needs  not  to 
plough  deep,  nor  to  dun  the  land  with  fertilizers. 
The  land  has  taken  it  easy,  too,  and  after  three  cen- 
turies of  uncrowded  fruition  appears  not  exhausted, 
but  restful  and  conservative.  Why  urge  it  ?  There 
will  be  enough  !  The  river's  roily  pulse  circulates  in 
ten  thousand  acequias,  and  gives  drink  to  the  thirsty 
fields,  cupped  with  their  little  irrigating-beds.  Its 
sediment  is  fertilizer  sufficient.  So  shall  the  brown 
bean,  the  quenchless  chile,  the  corn  and  the  wheat, 
fill  the  store-room — and  what  need  of  more  ? 

If  the  Neo-Mexicanized  Saxon  were  as  minded  to 
spiritual  graphicism  as  the  un-Saxonized  New  Mexi- 
can, he  would  have  one  chief  fetich  in  the  territory 
of  his  adoption — the  burro.  That  devoluted  donkey 
is  the  sole  canonizable  type  of  northern  New  Spain 
— the  genius  of  the  adobe.  He  works — as  New 
Spain  works  —  faithfully  but  without  friction.  He 
dreams,  meanwhile,  as  New  Spain  dreams — ruminat- 
ing on  dignity  and  wisdom  ;  by  the  wall  to  the  sun 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  II 

in  winter,  by  the  wall  to  the  shade  in  summer.  Here 
he  is  not  an  ass,  but  a  sage.  The  tatters  of  a  myriad 
cockle  -  burs  fray  not  his  ease — he  can  afford  rags. 
He  is  slow,  but  more  sure  than  the  End.  He  humps 
his  load  up  dizzy  heights  where  a  chamois  might  have 
vertigo.  He  rolls  down  a  precipice  a  few  hundred 
feet,  alights  upon  his  pack,  and  returns  upon  his  way 
rejoicing — grateful  for  exercise  without  exertion.  He 
likes  life  and  life  likes  him.  I  never  saw  a  dead  bur- 
ro, save  from  undue  confidence  in  railways — which 
have  been  the  death  of  many  worse  citizens.  He 
rouses  now  and  then  in  the  dead  watches  of  the 
night  to  sing  about  it.  The  philosopher  who  has  a 
few  lifetimes  to  spare  might  well  devote  one  to  the 
study  of  the  burro.  He  is  an  honorable  member  of 
the  body  social  and  politic.  Indeed,  he  is  the  corner- 
stone of  New  Mexico.  Without  him  civilization 
would  have  died  out.  He  ambles  cheerfully  in  such 
burdens  that  one  doubts  if  chemical  analysis  may  not 
be  necessary  to  determine  the  presence  of  burro  in 
the  mass ;  and  in  such  solution  or  at  ease  he  is  per- 
fectly content. 

The  house  to  which  the  burro  is  natural  comple- 
ment is  worthy  as  he.  The  adobe  is  the  easiest 
made  and  the  most  habitable  of  dwellings.  It  is  cool 
in  heat,  and  warm  against  utter  cold.  As  for  its 
making,  one  merely  flays  one's  lawn,  stands  the  epi- 
dermis on  edge,  and  roofs  it.  There  is  the  house— 
and  as  for  lawn,  a  bare  one  is  as  good  as  one  with 
cuticle.  The  unadulterated  adobe  is  a  box,  boarded 
of  sods  two  feet  long,  eight  inches  wide,  four  inches 
thick,  cut,  turned  over,  and  left  to  dry  out ;  then  laid 
upon  one  another  in  a  mortar  of  their  own  mud  ; 


12 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 


floored  with  clay,  roofed  with  peeled  pine  -  trunks 
crossed  with  branches  that  are  in  turn  thatched  with 
hay,  and  that  buried  under  a  foot  of  gravel. 

From  that  the  adobe  mounts  up  by  easy  degrees 


THE   CARRETA, 


to  any  elegance.  Its  possibilities  are  endless.  Charm- 
ing residences,  creditable  four-story  blocks,  are 
equally  facile  to  the  adaptive  "  mud  brick."  It  moves 
at  ease  in  the  prouder  society  of  brick  and  stone,  and 
teaches  them  new  manners  which  are  far  from  un- 
couth. 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  13 

The  bone  of  New  Mexican  industry  is  unchanged, 
but  new  ways  have  tattooed  the  skin.  The  plough- 
share of  a  pine-stub,  the  phaeton  with  half-ton  wheels 
of  wood,  and  their  frontier  associates  have  yielded  to 
steel  and  iron.  The  carreta  is  no  longer  a  familiar 
institution.  To  find  it  one  must  go  to  the  utter  ham- 
lets, where  the  shriek  of  its  ungreased  wheels — hewn 
cross-sections  of  a  giant  sycamore — still  affrights  the 
drowsy  land.  There  are  even  a  few  threshing-ma- 
chines ;  but  most  of  the  people  are  content  to  be  no 
better  than  the  Scripture,  and  thresh  with  quadrupe- 
dal flails.  Within  the  limits  of  the  territorial  capital, 
the  bean  and  the  shock  of  wheat  are  trodden  out  to 
this  day  by  scurrying  hoofs.  The  mission  grape  still 
pays  its  ruddy  juice  to  the  importunity  of  bare  feet 
and  tireless  knees.  The  sickle  is  king  of  the  har- 
vest field ;  and  the  pasture  is  three  hundred  miles 
square. 

Business  methods  are  conservative  amid  the  elder 
population.  Witness  the  following  true  story  : 

Cristobal  Nunez  and  Transito  Baca  are  two  vener- 
able residents  of  Llanito,  brothers-in-law,  and  equally 
addicted  to  legitimately  obtained  hiccoughs.  Hav- 
ing amassed  a  few  round  pesos  by  labor  at  a  sheep- 
shearing,  they  formed  a  partnership,  bought  ten 
gallons  of  whiskey  in  Santa  Fe,  and  started  over 
mountainous  roads  to  retail  it  in  outlying  plazas  from 
a  small  cart.  Each  knowing"  the  other's  failing,  they 
swore  a  solemn  oath  that  neither  would  give  the  other 
a  drop  during  the  trip  ;  and  thus  forearmed,  they  set 
out.  They  had  spent  every  cent,  save  a  nickel  which 
Cristobal  had  accidentally  retained. 

"Valgame  Dios!"  groaned    Cristobal,   after  they 


14  THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 

had  gone  a  few  miles,    "but  it  is  very  long  without 
to  drink.     For  the  love  of  the  Virgin,  cunado,  give 
me  a  little  to  me." 

"  But  how  !  That  thou  not  rememberest  our  com- 
promise?" asked  the  virtuous  Transito. 

Cristobal  groaned  again,  and  rode  a  few  miles  in 
silence.  Then  an  idea  percolated  through  his  shaggy 
locks — the  nickel  in  his  pocket. 

"  It  is  truth,  compadre,  that  we  compromised  not  to 
give  us  not  one  drop.  But  of  the  to  sell  was  nothing 
said.  See  !  That  I  have  cinco  centavos  !  Sell-me  a 
drinklet  to  me." 

"'  Sta  bueno!"  said  Transito,  pocketing  the  nickel 
and  pouring  his  companion  a  small  dose.  "The 
saints  are  witnesses  that  I  kept  my  oath.  I  give  not, 
but  sell." 

Everything  takes  its  time  in  New  Mexico ;  but  in 
half  an  hour  the  inspiration  got  across  the  wagon  to 
Transito. 

"  Carrambas !  How  buy  not  /  a  drinklet  tam- 
bien  ?  I  have  cinco  centavos  now.  Sell-me  a  little 
to  me,  compadre"  And  Cristobal  did  so,  thereby  re- 
gaining his  nickel. 

"  But  wait-me  a  so-little,  and  I  will  buy  a  drinklet 
from  thee  also,  that  we  may  drink  joined." 

Back  went  the  nickel  to  Transito  ;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  two  old  men  were  clinking  glasses  mutually 
"  a  la  vuestra  salud,  compadre"  This  seemed  more 
social,  till  a  disturbing  thought  occurred  to  Transito. 

"  Pero  hombre!  Thou  hast  had  two  drinks  and  I 
only  one.  Go,  sell-me  to  me  another,  that  we  are 
equals." 

This  logic  was  not  to  be  gainsaid  ;  and  Cristobal 


THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  15 

doled  out  the  whiskey  and  resumed  the  nimble  coin. 
Just  then  a  trace  broke. 

"  Ill-said  horses  !  And  of  ill-said  fathers  and  moth- 
ers !  That  now  we  have  to  go  to  camp  here.  To- 
morrow we  will  fix  the  harness/' 

But  they  did  not  fix  it  to-morrow,  nor  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next.  They  just  stayed  in  camp  and 
attended  strictly  to  business — which  was  remarkably 
good.  Now  Cristobal  was  merchant,  and  Transito 
customer  ;  and  now  al  contrario.  No  one  else  came 
along  to  disturb  the  routine  of  trade,  until  the  third 
day,  when  a  sheep-herder  found  two  white-headed 
men  sleeping  beside  an  empty  ten-gallon  keg.  A 
much-worn  nickel  lay  in  one  half-closed  fist,  and  the 
wool-propeller  took  it  along  for  luck. 

"  And  how  to  you  went  the  journey  ?  "  people 
asked  in  Llanito. 

"Mala  suerte"  sighed  Cristobal,  sadly.  "We 
sold  all  our  whiskey  ;  but  some  ladron  robbed  to  us 
asleep  of  all  we  had  taken  in." 

Mines  there  are,  but  no  monumental  ones.  The 
stories  of  ancient  and  wonderfully  rich  Spanish  mines 
in  the  Southwest  are  unmitigated  myths,  every  one. 
The  placers  of  the  Real  de  Dolores  date  only  from 
1828,  and  nuggets  are  still  washed  out  there  with 
primitive  rocker  and  pan.  There  is  not,  and  never 
has  been,  a  hydraulic  mine  in  New  Mexico,  despite 
the  enormous  areas  of  placer-ground.  As  for  the 
mines  in  rock,  they  do  not  count  here,  for  they  are 
purely  Saxon  institutions,  and  have  in  no  wise  affect- 
ed the  native  life  of  New  Spain.  The  most  impor- 
tant of  our  mines,  ethnologically,  is  the  ancient  "  Great 
Turquoise,"  in  the  round,  gray  crown  of  "  Mount  " 


1 6  THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 

Chalchuitl — a  hoary  knob  seven  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea-level,  and  seventy  above  its  own  base.  This 
was  the  only  prehistoric  mine  in  the  Southwest ;  and 
the  veins  and  nuggets  of  green  and  rarer  blue  through 
its  chalky  heart  were  worked  with  the  stone  hammer 
before  Columbus  and  before  gunpowder.  Its  output 
made  a  dim  commercial  link  between  the  buffalo-robe 
of  Dakota  and  the  parrot-plume  of  Yucatan.  The 
mine  is  viewed  with  awe  by  the  sporadic  tourist  as 
the  tomb  of  a  few  hundred  Pueblo  Indians  impris- 
oned at  hard  labor  by  those  cruel  Spaniards,  and 
caved  upon  by  the  more  merciful  rocks.  That  is  a 
characteristic  invention  of  the  Saxon  enemy.  The 
Spaniard  invariably  treated  the  aborigine  better  than 
we  did ;  he  never  made  an  Indian  work  in  a  mine  in 
New  Mexico  ;  and  he  never  worked  the  Great  Tur- 
quoise— which,  in  turn,  never  caved  upon  anyone. 
The  only  significance  the  mine  had  was  as  the  sup- 
plier of  a  substance  prized  by  all  Indians,  and  hence 
as  a  promoter  of  distrustful  intercourse  between  the 
near  Pueblos  who  controlled  it  and  their  more  or  less 
distant  neighbors,  none  of  them  knowing  gold  until 
the  Conquest,  and  none  having  use  for  it  even  yet. 
A  few  absolutely  perfect  turquoises  have  been  mined 
there  by  Americans  ;  but  the  game  was  never  worth 
the  fuse. 

Society  is  little  bitten  with  the  unrest  of  civilization. 
The  old  ways  are  still  the  best  ways  ;  and  the  in- 
creasing reprobates  who  would  improve  upon  their 
fathers  are  eyed  askance.  The  social  system  is  pa- 
triarchal, and  in  many  degrees  beautiful.  Mexican 
and  Pueblo  children  are,  as  a  class,  the  best-man- 
nered, the  most  obedient,  the  least  quarrelsome  in 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  1 7 

America.  Respect  for  age  is  the  corner-stone  of  so- 
ciety. A  son,  untouched  by  our  refining  influence, 
would  as  soon  put  his  hand  in  the  fire  as  smoke  be- 
fore his  parents — even  though  he  have  already  given 
them  grand  -  children.  A  stranger,  be  he  poor  or 
princely,  is  master  of  the  house  to  which  he  shall 
come.  It  may  be  the  veriest  hut  of  a  jacal  amid  the 
farther  ranges  ;  it  may  contain  but  a  single  crust  of 
bread  and  a  sheepskin  upon  the  clay  floor  ;  but  house 
and  crust  and  couch  are  his,  though  his  hosts  sleep 
supperless  upon  the  bare  adobe — and  all  with  a  high, 
gentle  courtesy  that  palaces  might  study.  The  An- 
glo-Saxon is  not  born  to  intrinsic  hospitality,  and  can 
understand  its  real  meaning  as  little  as  anything  else 
one  has  to  learn.  He  promulgates  the  Brotherhood 
of  Man  ;  but  to  him  man  means  his  brothers,  and  not 
his  fifty-ninth  cousins.  It  is  partly  because  of  this 
that  he  disavows,  and  is  infested  with,  the  tramp. 
Hospitality  is  as  Latin  in  fact  as  in  name.  It  is  in 
the  blood  ;  and  outside  that  blood  it  is  not.  In  the 
old  days,  one  might  zigzag  the  whole  incomparable 
area  of  Spanish  America,  without  money  or  letters, 
with  no  introduction  beyond  his  patent  of  humanity, 
and  be  assured  everywhere  of  a  "welcome  to  your 
own  house,  Senor."  It  is  very  much  so  to-day,  and 
the  traveller  in  the  outer  darkness  will  meet  a  hospi- 
tality as  utter  as  he  shall  find  the  lack  of  it  in  the  few 
"civilized"  communities  along  his  way.  There  are 
some  Mexicans  and  some  Pueblos  who  rfave  learned 
in  bitterness  to  shut  their  doors  upon  the  hospitality- 
robber  of  late  years  ;  but  they  are  very  few.  Almost 
every  Spanish  home  in  New  Mexico  is  a  home  too 
for  the  wayfarer ;  and  in  the  pueblos  it  is  the  sacred 


1 8  THE  LAND    OF  POCO   TIEMPO 

office  of  the  Cacique  to  see  that  no  stranger  is  un- 
cared  for.  There  are  poor  people  among  both  peo- 
ples— fewer  in  the  Indian  ranks — but  no  Mexican  and 
no  Pueblo  since  time  began  ever  went  hungry,  unless 
lost  in  the  wilderness ;  and  none  ever  suffered  for  the 
necessaries  of  life,  and  none  was  ever  outcast  of  his 
kind.  One  or  two  Pueblos  in  a  generation,  and  sev- 
eral Mexicans  in  a  week,  go  behind  the  bars ;  but  if  the 
Southwest  were  peppered  with  poor-houses,  no  soul 
of  either  race  would  ever  be  found  therein.  To  Saxons 
who  are  associable,  both  peoples  are  the  kindliest,  the 
most  thoughtful,  and  the  least  meddlesome  of  neighbors. 

The  Mexican  is  popularly  listed — thanks  to  the 
safely  remote  pens  of  those  who  know  him  from  a  car 
window,  and  who  would  run  from  his  gray  wrath  — 
as  cowardly  and  treacherous.  He  is  neither.  The 
sixth  generation  is  too  soon  to  turn  coward  the  blood 
which  made  the  noblest  record  of  lonely  heroism  that 
time  ever  read.  As  for  treachery,  it  is  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  philosophy  whether,  in  exterminating  a  rattle- 
snake, we  shall  invite  it  to  strike  us  first,  that  it  may 
have  "a  fair  show."  The  Latin  method  is  not  to 
allow  the  foe  the  privilege  of  the  first  bite — which  is 
sense  if  not  chivalry,  and  the  code  of  Christian  war- 
fare if  not  of  the  duello.  And  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  as  great  a  ratio  of  absolute  "chivalry,"  and  of 
giving  one's  self  the  disadvantage  in  favor  of  a  worthy 
foe,  among  Mexicans  as  among  the  Superior  Race. 

As  the  burro  is  the  spiritual  type  of  the  Southwest, 
so  is  the  sheep  the  material  symbol.  He  rendered  the 
Territory  possible  for  three  centuries,  in  the  face  of 
the  most  savage  and  interminable  Indian  wars  that 
any  part  of  our  country  ever  knew.  He  fed  and 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  19 

clothed  New  Spain,  and  made  its  customs,  if  not  its 
laws.  He  reorganized  society,  led  the  fashions, 
caused  the  only  machinery  that  was  in  New  Mexico 
in  three  hundred  years,  made  of  a  race  of  nomad 
savages  the  foremost  of  blanket-weavers,  and  invented 
a  slavery  which  is  unto  this  day  in  despite  of  the 
Emancipation  Proclamation.  The  first  sheep  that 
touched  what  is  now  United  States  came  to  New 
Mexico  with  Coronado  in  1540;  but  they  did  not  last. 
Half  a  century  later,  Onate  brought  the  merino  flocks 
whose  descendants  remain.  The  modest  wool-bearer 
soon  came  to  the  front.  He  was  the  one  available 
utilization  of  New  Mexico.  Society  gradually  fell  apart 
into  two  classes — sheep-owners  and  sheep-tenders. 
One  man  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  had  two 
million  head  of  sheep,  and  kept  twenty-seven  hundred 
peons  always  in  the  field  with  them,  besides  the  thou- 
sands more  who  were  directly  dependent.  That  was 
the  Spanish  governor  Baca.  "ElGuero"*  Chaves, 
the  first  governor  of  New  Mexico  under  the  Mexican 
Republic,  had  a  million  sheep.  The  last  of  the  great 
sheep-kings,  Don  Jose  Leandro  Perea,  of  Bernalillo, 
died  a  few  years  ago  leaving  two  hundred  thousand. 
Since  his  time,  the  largest  flocks  range  from  eighty 
thousand  to  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  ;  and  there 
are  more  than  a  dozen  individual  holdings  of  over 
fifty  thousand  head. 

The  social  effects  of  such  a  system,  wherein  four- 
fifths  of  the  Caucasian  male  population  were  servants 
at  five  to  eight  dollars  a  month  to  a  handful  of  mighty 
amos,  are  not  far  to  trace.  The  most  conscientious  of 
these  frontier  czars  had  perforce  a  power  beside  which 

*  The  Blonde. 


20  THE   LAND    OF  POCO    2IEMPO 

the  government  was  a  nonentity ;  and  the  unscrupu- 
lous swelled  their  authority  to  an  unparalleled  extent. 
It  was  easy  to  get  a  few  hundred  poor  shepherds 
into  one's  debt ;  and  once  in,  the  amo,  with  the  aid  of 
complaisant  laws,  took  good  care  that  they  should 
never  get  out.  He  was  thenceforth  entitled  to  the 
labor  of  their  bodies — even  to  the  labor  of  their  chil- 
dren. They  were  \&s  peons — slaves  without  the  ex- 
pense of  purchase.  And  peonage  in  disguise  is  still 
effective  in  New  Mexico. 

Sheep  made  commerce,  too.  There  were  no  rail- 
roads, and  hence  no  markets.  The  wool  was  of  ne- 
cessity consumed  at  home.  In  the  cumbrous  Mexican 
looms  it  grew  into  invincible  carpets  and  perennial 
garments.  It  was  practically  the  only  material  of 
wear,  save  the  Indian  buckskin.  Every  Mexican 
woman  wore  a  head-shawl,  and  every  man  a  blanket, 
both  home-woven.  The  surplus  went  into  blankets 
for  "  export."  Every  March  a  representative  from 
every  Spanish  family  in  New  Mexico  joined  the 
annual  conducta  at  the  rendezvous  below  Socorro, 
with  his  flintlock  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow,  his  burros 
laden  with  the  winter's  weaving  and  a  little  hoard  of 
coffee,  popcorn-meal,  and  dried  meat.  Thus  secure  in 
numbers  against  the  incessant  Apache,  the  mercan- 
tile army  marched  down  the  Rio  Grande  and  overran 
Sonora ;  trading  its  staples,  to  the  "  fool  Sonorenos  " 
of  its  weaving-songs,*  for  brazil-wood,  silks,  cattle, 

*  The  weaver  sitting  at  his  loom  was  wont  to  sing, 
"  Tejo  te,  y  no  te  tejo — 
Que  eres  par  un 
Sonoreno  pendejo. " 

"I  weave  thee,  and  I  weave  thee  not,  that  art  for  a  Sonoran  fool."     It  was 
a  frank  confession — these  blankets  were  very  shabbily  woven. 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  21 

oranges,  coffee,  dried-fruits,  and  Indian  girls.  This 
caravan  was  gone  out  of  New  Mexico  from  March  to 
September.  Then  the  traders  turned  hunters,  and 
sallied  out  in  force  to  the  vast  eastward  plains  to  kill 
and  jerk  the  year's  supply  of  buffalo-meat.  After  that 
long  and  perilous  trespass  on  the  lands  of  the  centaur 
Comanches,  came  the  expedition  to  the  salt-lakes  of 
Zuni  for  the  year's  salt ;  and  by  the  time  the  horses 
were  rested  from  that  arduous  march,  it  was  the  sea- 
son for  starting  on  another  conducta. 

Wool  was  not  an  unmixed  blessing  to  the  New 
Mexican  lover.  It  was  his  bread  and  butter,  but  also 
the  excuse  for  a  curious  hardship.  Every  New  Mexi- 
can Rachel  had  a  Rachel's  father,  and  Jacob's  lot 
was  multitudinously  hard.  Matches  were  not  trusted 
to  heaven,  but  made  sure  by  parental  hands.  Hav- 
ing elected  a  son-in-law  prospective,  the  first  concern 
was  to  prove  him.  In  return  for  the  proposed  honor 
of  admitting  him  to  the  family,  the  padre  politico  de- 
manded his  services  as  representative  in  the  conducta  ; 
then  in  the  bison-hunt ;  then  in  the  salt-harvest. 
Having  been  thus  arduously  and  dangerously  em- 
ployed for  a  year  without  material  reward,  the  lover 
might  receive  the  girl,  or  he  might  get  the  squashes. 
It  is  but  a  few  years  since  a  young  Mexican  friend 
was  mittened  with  a  gift  of  las  calabasas.  If  the 
match  was  still  on,  however,  the  suitor  had  still  one 
important  social  agendum  before  betrothal — the  pres- 
entation of  an  Indian  girl  to  his  dulcinea  for  a  hand- 
maiden. As  Indian  girls  ruled  steady  in  the  Sonora 
market  at  about  five  hundred  dollars — which  was  sev- 
eral times  more  money  than  most  young  paisanos 
ever  saw — the  only  resort  of  the  average  lover  was  to 


22 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 


PUEBLO   GIRL  WINNOWING   BEANS. 


organize  a  band  of  similarly  circumstanced  friends, 
take  the  war-path  against  the  marauding  Apaches  or 
Navajos,  find  an  encampment,  slay  the  warriors,  and 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  23 

bring1  the  females  home  captive — or  go  themselves  to 
the  land  where  are  neither  rigorous  fathers-in-law 
nor  c  a  lab  as  as. 

The  railroad  swept  away  all  this  a  decade  ago, 
bringing-  the  world's  markets  to  the  corral-side,  and 
making  the  condiicta  a  thing  of  the  past.  But  sheep 
remain  as  much  the  life  of  the  Territory  as  in  the  old 
days.  A  commercial  aberration  once  led  trusting 
souls  to  plant  cattle  on  the  plateaus  of  New  Mexico ; 
and  as  the  fever  grew,  Scottish  lords  and  Holland 
bankers  absorbed  counties  and  became  cattle-kings. 
The  counties,  in  turn,  absorbed  banks  and  baronies  ; 
and  very  little  remains  to  show,  save  costly  maps  pro- 
mulgating gaudy  steamers  plying  upon  lithographic 
rivers,  where  in  fact  a  minnow  must  stand  upon  his 
head  to  keep  his  gills  wet.  For  three  years  and  more 
the  railroads  in  New  Mexico  have  been  largely  a 
procession  of  cattle  bound  for  Kansas  and  other 
States  of  corn  and  water,  until  a  vast  majority  of  the 
great  herds  has  been  shipped  ;  and  the  sheep  lords 
it  again  over  his  own.  New  Mexico  was  made  for 
him  and  not  for  steers ;  and  he  has  come  out  first-best 
in  the  costly  contest  with  those  who  would  have  re- 
vised nature. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  essential  kinship  between 
sheep  and  superstition  ;  but  here  at  least  the  twain 
are  next-door  neighbors.  In  this  simple,  restful, 
patriarchal,  long-lonely  world,  the  chief  concerns  of 
life  are  the  field,  the  flock,  and — the  warding-off  of 
witches.  The  entire  Indian  population  believes  in 
them  to  a  soul ;  and  "  They  who  have  the  Evil 
Road  "  are  a  daily  menace  to  every  aboriginal  com- 
munity. The  prime  duty  of  the  numerous  medicine- 


24  THE  LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO 

men  of  each  tribe  and  village  is  to  keep  down  witch- 
craft and  punish  witches ;  and  the  faith  figures  in 
every  phase  of  the  infinitely  complicated  superstitio- 
religion  of  these  thirty  thousand  New  Mexicans.  Of 
the  fourfold  more  numerous  Mexican  population,  the 
assertion  cannot  be  quite  as  sweeping,  for  there  are 
many  educated  families  ;  but  probably  full  sixty  per 
cent,  of  the  whole  people  are  as  firm  believers  in 
witchcraft ;  and  every  undiluted  Mexican  hamlet  has 
its  suspected  brujas.  They  are  even  in  Santa  Fe. 
The  judicial  history  of  the  Territory  abounds  in 
formal  witchcraft  trials  ;  and  summary  executions 
extra  legem  had  not  wholly  ceased  among  the  Mexi- 
cans half  a  decade  ago  ;  while  among  all  the  Indian 
races  such  punishments  are  still  of  full  force  and 
judicial  form. 

Cumulative  penitence  is  a  deep-rooted  custom  of 
both  races.  With  the  Indians,  the  tribal  vicars 
mortify  the  flesh  in  behalf  of  their  people,  but  almost 
solely  by  excessive  fasts.  Among  the  Mexicans  still 
survives  that  astounding  perversion  of  the  once- 
godly  Franciscan  Third  Order,  the  Penitentes,  but 
now  confined  to  a  few  remote  hamlets.  These  fanat- 
ics do  penance,  for  themselves  only,  and  in  Lent 
achieve  their  sin-washing  for  the  year.  They  flay 
their  bare  backs  with  plaited  scourges,  wallow  naked 
in  beds  of  cactus,  bear  crushing  crosses,  and  on  Good 
Friday  actually  crucify  one  of  their  order,  chosen  to 
that  supreme  honor  by  lot.  This  is  not  all  of  the 
past.  The  Penitente  crucifixions  had  not  missed  a 
year  up  to  1891.  Hundreds  of  Americans  have 
witnessed  this  ghastly  passion-reality ;  and  I  have 
had  the  privilege  of  photographing  it. 


THE   LAND    OF  POCO    TIEMPO  25 

With  the  superstitions  dwells  the  simple  folk-lore. 
That  of  the  Mexicans  is  scant ;  but  that  of  the 
Indians  infinite  and  remarkably  poetic.  And  both 
races  have  great  store  of  folk-songs — composed  by 
Those  of  Old,  or  by  lonely  shepherds. 

These  are  but  fugitive  glimpses  of  the  Land  of 
Rretty  Soon.  A  picture  of  sharp  outline  and  definite 
detail  would  better  diagraph  some  of  the  contents  of 
New  Mexico,  but  it  would  not  be  a  true  picture  of  the 
country.  Landscape  and  life  are  impressionist,  and 
will  submit  neither  to  photography  nor  to  figures. 
Years  of  study  and  travel  do  not  itemize  the  picture- 
there  still  remain  in  the  memory  but  a  soft,  sweet 
haze  of  shifting  -light  and  shade,  a  wilderness  of 
happy  silence,  an  ether  of  contentful  ease,  wherein 
we  live  and  die  and  are  glad. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  ADOBB. 


t  t 


II 

LO"  WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


LO"  WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


HAD  the  hunchbacked  sermonizer  in  pentameter 
acquired  residence  in  the  American  Southwest, 
the  language  would  be  poorer  by  one  phrase  which 
was  once  rather  witty,  and  is  still  staple.  He  would 
have  found  Indians  who  built  houses  four  stories 
taller  than  did  their  Caucasian  neighbors  ;  who  had 
as  much  land  per  capita,  and  tilled  it  as  effectively ; 
who  wore  upon  the  average  as  good  clothing,  and, 
upon  occasions  of  state,  better — among  whom,  in 
fact,  poverty  is  quite  unknown — and  we  should  have 
heard  nothing  of  "  Lo,  the  poor  Indian."  For  the 
Pueblo,  the  most  striking  ethnologic  figure  in  our 
America  to-day,  is  emphatically  an  Indian  who  is  not 
poor  from  any  point  of  view.  Physically,  mentally, 
morally,  socially,  politically,  he  need  not  shun  com- 
parison with  the  average  of  his  lately  acquired  coun- 
trymen ;  and  he  even  affords  luxuries  to  which  the 
superior  race  has  not  yet  risen.  As  an  Indian  he  is 
a  paradox;  as  a  human,  he  is  unique  in  the  whole 
world.  He  is  the  one  racial  man  who  enjoys  two 
religions,  irreconcilable  yet  reconciled  ;  two  curren- 
cies, millenniums  apart  in  the  world's  ripening;  two 
sets  of  tools,  as  far  asunder  as  the  Stone  Age  from 
the  locomotive ;  two  sets  of  laws,  one  coeval  with 
Confucius,  and  the  other  with  the  Supreme  Court ; 


"   WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


two  languages  that  preceded  us;  and  two  names, 
whereof  the  one  we  hear  was  ratified  by  the  sacra- 
ment of  Christian  baptism,  while  the  other,  whereby 
he  goes  among  his  own,  was  sealed  upon  his  infant 
lips  with  the  spittle  of  a  swart  godfather  at  a  pagan 

feast.      He  is  the 
sole  aborigine  on 
earth  who   inhab- 
its   many-storied 
buildings,  and  the 
only  man  who  ever 
achieved,    in     our 
land,    such    archi- 
tecture of  unburnt 
clay.     He  is  a  he- 
reditary   and    im- 
memorial    farmer, 
who    learned   nei- 
-    ther     architecture 
nor    agriculture 
from  us,  but  gave 
us  our  first  lessons 
in  that  which  is  a 
fundament  of  farm- 
ing    in     an     area 
equal    to    twenty- 
five  per  cent,  of  our  whole  country — irrigation.     From 
whichsoever  side  we  view  him,  he  is  worthy  a  com- 
prehension which  has  never  been  publicly  had  of  him. 
Our  genuine  understanding  of  the   Pueblo   dates 
from  the    new   school    of  American    archaeology,   of 
which   Bandelier  (with  the  early  guidance  of  Lewis 
H.  Morgan)  was  founder  and  is  head.     I  make  this 


TIGUA   YOUTH,  ISLETA. 


"Z6>"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR  31 

statement  advisedly  ;  for  science  is  by  little  the  richer 
for  the  peckings  of  others  at  this  field.  The  essential 
errors  of  research  in  our  Southwest  were  two :  first, 
the  employment  of  students,  or  rather  detectives, 
limited  severely  to  recording  details  which  were 
weighed  and  collated  solely  by  men  who  never  saw 
the  field,  and  who  therefore  had  not  the  necessary 
horizon.  And  second,  entire  disregard  of  all  the 
documentary  and  geographical  accessories,  without 
which  such  research  is  absolutely  blind.  There  have 
been  a  few  genuine  students,  but  they  are  unfortu- 
nately as  rare  as  genuine.  As  to  the  armchair  arch- 
aeologists, they  do  not  count. 

The  very  traditions  of  history  have  been  rudely 
sent  to  the  right-about  face  in  the  last  decade,  for  a 
new  school  in  history  *  also  has  'arisen.  Bandelier 
has  been  the  first  American  historian  fully  to  employ 
the  three  essential  factors  of  history — record,  physical 
geography,  and  ethnology,  That  these  are  history, 
and  that  history  cannot  be  without  them,  has  been 
long  established  ;  but  the  theory  went  long  lonely. 

To  the  uninitiated,  the  general  mode  in  which  the 
history  of  Spanish  America  has  been  "  studied  "  is 
little  short  of  incredible.  The  student  has  seemed 
actually  afraid  that  he  might  be  biased  by  knowledge 
—by  seeing  the  country  and  the  peoples  which  have 
made  that  history,  or  by  consulting  the  vast  mass  of 
reliable  Spanish  record,  and  has  at  all  events  avoided 
both  "  dangers."  As  example  of  this  strange  self- 
blinding,  I  may  mention  the  long  current  dispute  as 
to  the  respective  ages  of  Santa  Fe  (actually  founded 

*  Headed  by  the  greatest  of  American  historians,  living  or  dead,  Francis 
Parkman  ;  and  that  brave  apostle  of  truth  and  clarity,  John  Fiske. 


32  "LO"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR 

in  1605)  and  St.  Augustine  (actually  founded  in 
1560).  But  the  closest  historian  has  had  his  day. 
It  is  now  even  deemed  necessary  to  consult  the  re- 
corded facts,  though  they  are  in  another  language ; 
and  to  have  at  least  seen  the  races  and  the  geography, 
which  are  equally  important  factors. 

Since  Morgan  so  completely  exploded  the  romantic 
school  of  history,  we  hear  no  more  of  the  "  emperor- 
ship "  of  Montezuma,  nor  of  his  vast  "  treasures  ;  "  of 
Cabeza  de  Vaca's  discovery  of  New  Mexico  ;  of  Aztec 
and  Toltec  ruins  within  the  United  States.  Those 
shibboleths  of  an  ignorance  which  was  too  lazy  or  too 
lame  to  go  to  walk  and  see,  have  been  expurgated 
from  the  vocabularies  of  science,  and  remain  only  to 
the  unconscious  humorists  who  study  ethnology  from 
a  flying  Pullman  or  an  Eastern  closet. 

It  is  a  matter  of  knowledge,  at  last,  that  Cabeza  de 
Vaca  never  saw  New  Mexico.  The  tireless,  fearless 
Franciscan  fraile,  Marcos  of  Nizza,  first  found  the  ter- 
ritory, and  first  saw  its  distinctive  aborigines.  That 
was  in  1539.  A  year  later  he  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  Pueblos  the  first  Caucasian  soldier  they  had 
ever  seen — the  neglected  Coronado.  Thence  on, 
Spanish  knowledge  of  the  Pueblos  was  practically 
continuous  and  progressively  accurate ;  and  by  the 
time  the  Saxon  had  raised  his  first  hut  in  the  New 
World,  these  Indians  were  vassals  of  Spain  and  con- 
verts of  Rome.  Both  in  justice  to  history,  and  for  the 
comprehension  of  the  present,  it  is  proper  to  reiterate 
here  that  the  Spanish  never  enslaved  the  Pueblos ; 
never  made  them  work  in  mines ;  found  no  mines  in 
New  Mexico  and  made  none;  never  forced  the  Indians 
to  abandon  their  old  religion  and  adopt  the  new. 


"LO"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR  33 

Spain's  was  the  most  comprehensive,  humane,  and 
effective  "  Indian  policy  "  ever  framed.  In  all  three 
qualities  it  surpassed  all  the  Indian  policies  of  all 
other  European  nations  and  the  later  United  States 
rolled  into  one. 

The  sedentary  population  of  the  Southwest  was 
never  great.  The  closet-historian  puts  it  at  from 
two  hundred  thousand  upward ;  but  it  is  now  posi- 
tively established  that  it  never  exceeded  thirty  thou- 
sand in  historic  times,  if  ever.  There  are  in  New 
Mexico  alone  the  ruins  of  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of 
stone  pueblos  ;  but  the  fact  which  has  been  overlooked 
is  that  they  were  not  all  occupied  at  once.  They 
were  the  successive  homes  of  a  small  race,  which, 
though  "  sedentary,"  moved  and  took  its  seat  along 
almost  as  readily  as  May-day  pilgrims  change  flats  in 
New  York.  The  circumambient  savage  became  too 
attentive  ;  or  drouth  prevailed  ;  or  an  epidemic  came  ; 
or  lightning  befell  the  estufa  ;  or  any  one  of  a  thou- 
sand other  omens  indexed  the  will  of  The  Trues,  and 
forthwith  the  aborigine  changed  his  town  and  his 
farm  to  a  new  place,  and  left  the  bones  of  the  old  to 
befool  undreamed-of  theorizers.  His  numbers  are 
practically  the  same  as  three  hundred  years  ago. 
Then  he  counted,  in  New  Mexico,  about  nine  thou- 
sand, and  about  nine  thousand  he  counts  to-day. 
This  is  in  keeping  with  a  very  notable  and  seldom 
noted  truth  of  history.  Wherever  our  ancestors,  the 
Earth-hungry,  have  touched  America  for  more  than  a 
century,  the  aborigine  is  practically  extinct.*  In  the 

*  The  last  census  shows  250, ooo  Indians  remaining  in  the  United  States. 
Ninety  per  cent,  of  these  are  in  the  area  which  we  absolutely  had  not  touched  a 
century  ago.  And  over  one-third  are  in  the  area  guarded  and  preserved  by  the 
Spanish. 


34  "Z<9"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR 

far  greater  American  area  covered  by  Spain  for  three 
centuries  and  a  half,  the  aborigine  is  practically  as 
numerous  as  at  the  Conquest,  and  much  better  off. 
When  this  unquestionable  fact  becomes  more  widely 
recognized,  we  shall  hear  less  of"  Spanish  atrocities  " 
in  the  New  World. 

The  Pueblo  is  neither  Aztec  nor  Toltec.  No  one 
who  uses  the  latter  word  can  defensibly  define  it ; 
and  as  to  the  Aztecs,  they  are  merely  the  Nahuatl, 
who  still  dwell  about  the  lake  of  Mexico.  The 
Pueblo  has  no  connection  with  them,  further  than 
that  he  has  learned  a  few  Aztec  words  brought  to 
him  by  the  Spanish.  All  the  ruins  in  our  Southwest 
are  purely  Pueblo  ruins,  and  there  is  not  an  Aztec 
stone  among  them. 

A  pet  illumination,  also,  of  the  same  now  exploded 

romancing,  was  to  catalogue  the  Pueblo  as  patiently 

awaiting  the  second    coming    of   Montezuma.      The 

Pueblo  has  no  concern  with  Montezuma,  and  never 

did  have  ;   and  at  the  fable  and  those  who  would  put 

it  in  his  mouth,  he  simply  laughs.     The  truth  is,  that 

this   myth  was  invented  in  Mexico   by  Mexicans  in 

1846  as  a  campaign  document  to  lead  the  Pueblos 

into    political    combinations.       It    was    industriously 

propagated  here,  but  utterly  failed  to  be  swallowed 

by  the  Indians,  and   never   imposed  on   anyone  until 

the  usual  closet-archaeologist  came  along  to  adopt  it, 

since  when  it  has  flourished  for  want  of  contradiction. 

Racially  the   Pueblo   is   a   palpable   Mongol.      He 

even  finds,  often,  the  same  inter-slipperiness  of  /  and 

r.     It  is  not  essential,  however,  to  infer  his  migration 

from  China  via  the  Northwest — though  the  Navajo, 

his  nomad  prodigal  son,  speaks  still  the  tongue  of 


"Z<9"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


35 


the  great  Tin-neh  tribe  of  Alaska,  and  is  himself  called 
Tin-neh  by  the  Pueblos.  But  migration  has  ceased 
to  be  our  only  ethnologic  alternative  since  "  equiva- 
lent development  "  was  thought  out. 

When  history  found  the  Pueblo  he  dwelt  in  houses 
like  his  own  of  to-day,  tilled   his   farms  by  irrigation 


INTERIOR    OF   A    PUEBLO    HOUSE.      (ISLETA.) 

as  now,  and  lived  in  general  by  most  of  his  present 
rules.  Of  him  we  have  far  fuller  and  more  accurate 
historic  record  than  of  any  other  aborigine  within  our 
borders ;  and  as  he  changed  slowly  wherein  he 
changed  at  all,  the  picture  holds  largely  good  for  the 
remoter  past.  At  the  Conquest  he  had  no  brute  ser- 
vants— neither  beast  of  burden,  watch-beast,  milker, 


36  "LO"    WHO  JS  NOT  POOR 

nor  meat-giver.  In  this  the  Apache  of  the  Plains 
was  ahead  of  him,  for  he  had  vehicle  and  pack-animal 
—the  sledge  and  the  Eskimo  dog.  The  only  do- 
mestic animal  of  the  Pueblo  was  the  turkey ;  and  it 
was  kept  rather  for  its  feathers  than  for  its  meat. 
The  Pueblo  crops  were  corn,  squashes,  beans,  and, 
in  places,  cotton.  Spain  gave  him,  and  America  at 
large,  the  horse,  cow,  sheep,  goat,  ass,  cat,  and  dog. 
These  he  assimilated  with  an  industry  proportionate 
to  their  value  to  him  ;  and  of  them  all  he  now  has 
enough.  Every  male  Pueblo,  in  effect,  has  a  horse, 
and  most  have  burros.  Sheep  have  supplanted  cot- 
ton, and  the  processes  of  the  farm  are  carried  on  with 
modern  implements.  An  Indian  of  Isleta  has  recently 
purchased  even  a  threshing-machine,  and  several 
principales  in  various  pueblos  own  buggies,  while 
nearly  every  family  has  a  good  farm-wagon. 

The  first  effect  of  the  Spanish  Conquest  was  a 
unique  racial  stride.  The  Pueblo,  who  never  knew 
any  metal  before,  despite  the  fables  of  his  gold,  passed 
at  one  step  from  the  stone  age  to  the  age  of  iron, 
copper,  and  silver ;  from  sole  man  to  man  with  the 
beasts  in  his  employ.  He  was  given,  and  promptly 
adopted,  wheat  and  fruits,  which  have  since  become 
an  integral  part  of  his  economy.  Grapes  he  was 
given  about  1630,  and  in  1891  he  made  a  round 
thousand  barrels  of  wine  in  the  one  pueblo  of  Isleta, 
besides  selling  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  fruit. 
Wine  is  made  also  in  the  pueblos  of  Jemez  and 
Sandia;  but  practically  in  none  of  the  rest. 

In  1540  the  Pueblo  dressed  in  garments  of  cotton, 
buckskin,  robes  of  twisted  rabbit  -  hides,  tunics  of 
yucca  fibre,  and  mantles  of  feathers.  He  already 


"LO"   WHO  IS  NOT  POOR  37 

knew  how  to  tan,  spin,  and  weave,  to  make  haijdsome 
baskets,  and  an  excellent  semi-glazed  pottery,  with- 
out the  potter's  wheel.  With  no  tools  but  stone  he 
worked,  broadly  speaking,  as  well  as  we  with  steel, 
because  time  was  nothing.  That  most  of  these  things 
are  not  so  well  done  by  him  to-day  is  not  a  sign  of 
decadence,  but  rather  of  evolution.  He  has  found 
more  profitable  outlets  for  his  time.  He  taught  the 
Navajo  to  weave,  and  now  the  Navajo  is  his  weaver, 
while  he  takes  that  leisure  for  his  improved  and  more 
exacting  farm.  Blankets  are  no  more  made  by  the 
Pueblos  ;  and  they  of  Moqui  alone  continue  to  weave 
the  women's  dresses,  with  which  they  supply  all  the 
other  pueblos,  as  they  do  also  with  baskets.  The 
only  weaving  still  common  to  all  the  towns  is  that  of 
the  fajas,  or  bright-hued  girdles,  and  their  smaller 
counterparts  for  garters  and  queue-fastenings.  These 
are  woven  exclusively  by  the  women  now ;  and  noth- 
ing is  left,  save  at  Moqui,  of  the  ancient  custom  under 
which  the  textile  art  pertained  exclusively  to  the  men. 
Isleta  makes  hardly  any  pottery,  having  found  it  bet- 
ter to  buy  the  indispensable  water-jars  from  villages 
which  have  smaller  agricultural  cares.  The  Pueblo  is 
not  entirely  dull  in  such  matters.  He  was  a  prehis- 
toric trader.  He  had  an  established  commerce  in  salt 
(from  his  several  extensive  salines),  tanned  buffalo- 
hides  and  buckskin,  turquoise,  mineral  paint,  and  cot- 
ton mantles.  He  traded  not  only  with  his  brethren, 
but  with  Apache,  Comanche,  Navajo,  and  Ute  ;  with 
tribes  from  eastern  Kansas  to  northern  Mexico. 
None  was  too  savage  to  be  customer  ;  and  having 
traded  with  his  visitors  by  day,  he  shut  them  out  by 
night,  and  slept  with  his  hand  on  his  scalp  and  every 


38  "Z6>"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

house-top  patrolled.  His  commercial  instinct  was 
not  repressed  by  the  Conquest,  which  rather  gave 
him  a  new  market  and  greater  safety  in  the  old  ones. 
To-day  his  income  from  the 'towns  of  the  Hlah-fah- 
deh  amounts  to  tens  of  thousands  of  dollars  annually. 
He  meanders  by  express-train  or  burro-train  from 
Santa  Fe  to  California  with  his  fruit  and  other  staples, 
and  is  a  godsend  in  a  thirsty  land.  And  while  chang- 
ing his  modern  fruit  into  modern  dollars,  he  still 
trudges  three  hundred  miles  to  Moqui  to  pay  tur- 
quoise or  shell  currency  for  mantas.  He  sometimes 
carries  the  paradox  even  further,  and  acquires  a  quiet 
revenue  by  manufacturing  fetiches  to  sell  the  Bureau 
of  Ethnology  and  other  seekers  after  truth. 

The  most  important  ethnologic  effect  of  the  com- 
ing of  Spain,  was  to  make  the  Pueblo  from  a  seden- 
tary to  a  fixed  Indian.  Instead  of  continuing  to  play 
chess  with  his  cities  across  a  three-hundred-mile 
board,  he  now  was  limited.  To  each  of  his  com- 
munities was  given  a  generous  grant  of  land,  and 
upon  that  grant  he  must  stay.  Thenceforth  there 
were  no  town-migrations,  and  the  living  pueblos  are 
essentially  where  they  were  when  Plymouth  Rock 
came  into  history.  These  grants  have  since  been 
confirmed  by  our  Government ;  and  the  Pueblo  is  an 
Indian  who  lives  not  upon  a  reservation  but  upon  a 
United  States  patent.  The  total  amount  of  land 
owned  by  the  Pueblos  is  893,130  acres.  Zuni  has 
215,040;  Isleta,  110,080;  Acorna,  95,791;  and  the 
smaller  towns  in  proportion.  Of  course  the  vast 
majority  of  this  land  is  fit  for  nothing  but  grazing; 
the  average  tillage  of  the  Pueblo,  according  to  the 
guesses  of  the  Census  Bureau,  is  four  and  a  half  acres 


"LO"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR  39 

per  capita.  Furthermore,  the  Pueblos  are  citizens  of 
the  United  States,  a  political  fact  which  seems  to 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  Interior  Department 
as  completely  as  has  the  fact  that  they  are  members 
of  a  Christian  church.  Their  autonomy  and  their  full 
rights  of  citizenship  have  been  established  in  the 
highest  tribunals  of  the  land ;  and  yet  we  continue  to 
"  educate"  them  by  force,  and  to  send  missionaries  to 
them  ! 

Permanency  thus  secured  by  the  grant  policy,  a 
further  Spanish  measure  for  the  benefit  of  the  Pue- 
blos was  centralization,  which  was  effected,  as  usual, 
by  suasion  and  not  by  force.  At  the  Conquest  there 
were  seventy-six  inhabited  pueblos.  One  of  the  first 
steps  of  the  missionaries  was  to  induce  the  Indians  to 
concentrate  in  their  chief  towns,  for  greater  safety 
from  their  savage  neighbors  ;  and  the  result  has  been 
the  twenty-four  present  pueblos.  The  ethnologic  ef- 
fect upon  the  Indian  of  this  twofold  change  has  been 
very  striking.  It  made  him  more  secure  ;  therefore 
more  adaptive.  It  enabled  his  wholesale  conversion 
to  Christianity — his  is  the  only  race  of  Indian  church- 
members  in  our  history — and  his  general  material  ad- 
vance. With  greater  fixity  of  abode  he  has  still  fur- 
ther increased  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
nomad.  His  perceptions  have  grown  less  acute  than 
those  of  the  hunted  hunter — though  still  far  ahead  of 
the  Caucasian — but  he  has  reflected  more,  acquired 
more,  and  preserved  more.  His  traditions  have  ac- 
cumulated to  a  huge  mass ;  his  laws  are  well  formu- 
lated; his  internal  religion  has  become  bewilderingly 
complex.  It  is  fortunate  for  archaeology  that  the 
Spaniard  was  his  brother's  keeper.  Had  the  Pueblo 


40  «Z<9"   WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

enjoyed  sixteenth  -  century  acquaintance  with  the 
Saxon,  we  should  be  limited  now  to  unearthing  and 
articulating  his  bones. 

The  Pueblo  has,  more  than  any  of  our  other  abo- 
rigines, a  home-life ;  but  this  also  is  a  gift  of  Spain. 
At  the  Conquest  he  maintained  rigid  separation  of 
the  sexes.  Connecticut  laws  were  a  mild  blue  to  his 
indigo.  The  men  and  youth  slept,  ate,  and  lived  in 
the  estufa  ;  the  women  and  children  were  relegated 
to  the  small  rooms  of  the  huge  honey-combed  pyra- 
mid of  the  terraced  house.  The  Spanish  changed  all 
this ;  and  to-day  the  Pueblo  lives  at  home  and  takes 
as  much  joy  thereof  as  we  of  ours. 

Popular  institutions  were  before  us,  even  in  our 
own  land.  Before  history  was,  this  peculiar  people 
had  solved  the  problem  in  its  own  peculiar  way  ;  and 
there  were  hundreds  of  American  "  republics  "  ahead 
of  Columbus.  Every  Pueblo  town  was  an  autonomic 
commonwealth,  and  is  so  still — oases  of  approximate 
civilization  in  a  continental  desert  of  savagery.  The 
Pueblo  social  organization  is  essentially  democratic. 
It  is  too  complex  to  enter  here — a  volume  could 
scarce  contain  it — but  it  may  be  briefly  defined  as  a 
military  democracy,  guided  by  a  democratic  theocra- 
cy. "  Church  and  State  "  in  the  Indian  sense  are  dis- 
tinct yet  inseparable.  Moses  the  captain,  and  Aaron 
the  high-priest,  are  here  Siamese  twins — two,  yet  in- 
divisible. The  commander-in-chief  of  the  army  has 
no  hampering  by  Congress  ;  but  he  would  not  think 
of  moving  without  his  chaplain.  There  is  no  abso- 
lute head,  and  a  bewildering  amount  of  body  in  this 
remarkable  economy.  The  actual  Captain  of  War, 
Kah-bay-deh,  is  the  highest  single  man,  and  within 


"LO"   WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

limits  is  supreme  ;  but  neither  is  he  independent  o 
the  Shamans  of  War,  the  Cacique,  and  other  officials. 
He,  like  all  the  most  potent  authorities,  holds  a  life- 
office  ;  but  there  is  also  a  figure-head  War-Captain 
who  is  elected  annually,  as  is  the  civil  governor,  both 
being  Spanish  innovations  dating  from  1620.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that  the  first  republican  institution  in  the 
United  States,  an  annual  election  of  governors,  should 
have  come  directly  from  the  Spanish  Crown.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  chiefship.  With  the  Pueblo  (as 
with  all  aborigines)  heredity  counts  for  nothing.  All 
dignities  are  reached  by  election,  or — in  their  inner 
cults — by  selection.  There  is  constant  watchfulness 
against  any  dynastic  tendency.  More  than  anywhere 
in  civilization,  the  official  is  server  of  the  people,  and 
he  is  never  recreant  to  his  trust. 

There  is  a  congress,  called  the  Junta  of  Principales, 
which  is  the  civil  law-making  body,  but  cannot  touch 
matters  of  religion.  The  Governor  is  chairman  of  its 
sessions.  The  Cacique  selects  its  members  ;  but  it 
retains  or  impeaches,  and  ousts  them  at  will.  Around 
these  factors  of  government,  and  including  some  of 
them,  cluster  the  four  great  orders — the  Mothers 
(three  Caciques  and  the  Shamans  of  War),  the  War- 
riors, the  Hunters,  and  the  Medicine-men — and  again 
intertangled  with  these,  but  below  them,  a  dizzy  array 
of  still  potent  groups  which  figure  in  the  political 
economy. 

The  laws  of  the  pueblo  are  simple  but  admirable, 
and  are  thoroughly  enforced.  Crime  is  practically 
unknown  ;  and  for  occasional  minor  lapses  the  of- 
fender is  induced  to  jail  by  a  handcuff  more  civilized 
than  our  own,  since  it  fits  about  the  neck,  and  the 


LO"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR 


culprit  can  neither  be  tortured  by  it,  nor  reach  nor 

pull  back 
upon  his 
captors. 
The  gentle- 
ness of  offi- 
c  ials  and 
laymen  is  al- 
ways nota- 
ble. A  resist- 
er  is  never 
clubbed  or 
choked  into 


• 


a  c  q  u  i  e  s  - 
cenc  e  ,  b  u  t 
is  over- 
powered 
without  a 
scratch.  A 
drunken 
vagabon  d 
once  shot  a 
worn  an  in 
Isleta  and 
fl  ed.  A 
posse  wi  t  h 
rifles  pur- 
sued and 
soon  over- 
took him. 

He  entrenched  himself  and  was  ready  to  shoot  the 
first   who    should   come    near.     Instead  of  silencing 


A   TIGUA   GIRL. 


"£O"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR  43 

him  with  a  bullet,  as  there  was  perfect  justice  in 
doing,  the  Alguazil  ordered  him  dislodged  with 
stones.  A  deft  throw  stunned  him,  and  he  was 
captured  with  one  unimportant  bruise.  This  is  a 
typical  case. 

The  social  corner-stone  is  not  the  family,  but  the 
clan.  Husband  and  wife  must  belong  to  different 
gentes,  and  the  children  follow  her  clan.  In  other 
words,  descent  is  from  the  mother,  and  not  from  the 
father.  The  Pueblo  had  invented  Woman's  Rights  be- 
fore any  Caucasian  acquired  that  social  insomnia,  and 
it  remains  one  of  his  fundaments.  He  has  never  used 
his  wife  as  a  pack-beast.  He  is  not  henpecked,  but 
just;  and  even  finds  no  shame  in  "  toting"  the  baby 
upon  his  back  all  day  when  he  has  no  more  essential 
duty.  The  spheres  of  the  sexes  are  clearly  defined, 
but  manfully.  The  woman  is  complete  owner  of  the 
house  and  all  it  contains  save  his  personal  trinkets  ; 
and  she  has  no  other  work  to  do  than  housework,  at 
which  she  is  no  sloven.  Should  her  husband  ill-treat 
her,  she  could  permanently  evict  him  from  home,  and 
would  be  upheld  in  so  doing.  The  man  tills  the 
fields,  and  they  are  his ;  but  after  the  crops  are 
housed  she  has  an  equal  voice  in  their  disposition. 
The  live-stock  is,  of  course,  his  ;  but  he  will  seldom 
sell  an  animal  without  consulting  his  wife.  The  fam- 
ily relations  are  very  beautiful.  Here  are  children 
never  spoiled,  never  disobedient,  almost  never  quar- 
relsome ;  parents  never  neglectful  and  never  harsh  ; 
and  none  who  fail  of  respect  to  seniority — even  as 
between  boy  and  elder  boy.  Conjugal  fidelity  is  as 
general  as  with  us — the  Pueblo  was  a  prehistoric 
monogam,  and  punished  unfaithfulness  with  death— 


44  " LO"   WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

and   it  is   doubtful   if  any   American  community  can 
show  a  less  percentage  of  loose  women. 

The  theology  of  the  Pueblos  is  as  democratic  as 
their  sociology,  and  as  complex.  Duality  is  an  in- 
tegral part  of  their  elder  religion  as  of  their  govern- 
ment. We  have  seen  the  idea  even  in  architecture, 
where  the  houses  once  had  gender.  The  very  crea- 
tion is  based  on  sex.  There  is  no  one  God* — the 
Sun-Father  and  the  Moon- Mother  were  the  equal 
First  Causes.  Their  sons,  the  Hero  Twins,  seem  to 
come  next  in  importance ;  and  behind  the  aboriginal 
Castor  and  Pollux  marches  a  countless  host  of  minor 
deities — spirits  of  every  attribute  and  forms  of  every 
shape.  The  compass  has  six  cardinal  points— East, 
North,  West,  South,  Up,  and  Down-and-around,  in 
that  sacred  and  inviolable  order — and  each  is  the 
Olympus  of  a  community  of  The  Trues.  The  forces 
of  the  universe,  the  processes  of  nature,  the  very 
animals  of  use  or  danger — all  are  deified.  And  with 
this  astoundingly  complicated  mythology  of  infinite 
detail  the  Pueblo  has  also  his  Christian  Tata  Dios. 
He  is  as  sincere  Catholic  as  pagan,  though  the  pagan 
is  naturally  innermost ;  and  woe  to  them  that  would 
profane  his  church,  for  which  he  will  give  his  life. 
He  is  baptized,  confessed,  married,  and  buried  in  that 
church ;  and  for  all  has  another  set  of  secret  ceremo- 
nies of  his  own.  It  is  another  phase  of  this  racial 
contradiction,  this  human  hyphen  between  the  pres- 
ent and  the  utmost  past,  who  lights  his  pleasure- 
cigarette  with  an  Ohio  match,  and  his  medicine- 
smoke  from  the  prehistoric  fire-drill ;  who  hunts  with 

*  Nor  did  any  Indian  in  North  America  ever  have    original    belief    in    one 
'Great  Spirit." 


"LO"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR  45 

the  Winchester  and  executes  with  the  obsidian-tipped 
arrow ;  who  goes  to  mass  in  the  great  adobe  church 
his  patient  fathers  builded  for  the  new  faith,  and 
thence  to  his  feathered  prayer-sticks  in  a  mountain 
cave.  He  has  his  Christian  priest,  and  then  an  army 
of  semi-religious  officials  to  meet  every  minutest 
exigency  of  life — even  to  the  propagation  of  the  race  ! 
Life  is  one  endless  religious  ceremony.  The  Indian 
(and  I  mean  here  any  Indian)  does  nothing  "for 
fun."  His  hunts,  his  dances,  his  races,  his  very 
smoking,  have  all  a  deep  inner  significance.  And 
yet  he  seems  secondarily  to  enjoy  it  all.  He  is  an 
admirable  athlete,  and  his  sports  are  thrilling,  while 
his  endurance  is  marvellous.  In  his  ceremonial  spring 
foot-races  he  runs  a  three-hundred-and-twenty  yard 
course  at  a  sprinting  gait  twenty  to  thirty  times  in  an 
afternoon.  His  sedentary  games  are  few  but  good ; 
and  one  is  fully  equal  to  chess.  He  is  not  a  gambler 
like  the  Navajo  ;  and  though  he  sometimes  bets,  it  is 
seldom  on  a  game  of  simple  chance.  Nor  is  he  a 
politician.  Here  in  very  truth  the  office  seeks  the 
man.  Not  uncommonly  a  governor  has  to  be  thrown 
for  a  few  days  into  the  calaboz  before  he  will  accept  the 
high  office  to  which  he  has  just  been  elected.  This 
election  is  by  the  Junta  ;  but  there  is  already  a  grow- 
ing sentiment  toward  universal  suffrage,  The  pres- 
ent Governor  of  the  large  pueblo  of  Isleta  belongs  to 
the  radical  "  Gophers,"  who  favor  this  change,  while 
the  conservative  "  Black-Eyes  "  oppose  it.  The  two 
parties  are  about  equal  in  numbers.  The  office  of 
Cacique  is  still  more  difficult  to  be  forced  upon  the 
appointee.  He  is  not  a  ruler,  as  popularly  imagined, 
but  the  tribal  penitent,  whose  life  of  incessant  self- 


46  "ZO"    WHO   IS  NOT  POOR 

mortification  and  hardship   is  not  to  be  coveted,  de- 
spite his  great  influence. 

They  were  never  more  mistaken  who  deem  the 
Pueblo  dull.  He  has  even  a  poetic  imagination. 
His  folk-lore  is  not  only  vastly  voluminous,  but  full 
of  fancy — at  times,  of  striking  beauty.  It  is  poetry 
in  body  as  well  as  in  spirit;  for  it  is  told  down  from 
father  to  son  in  fixed  metrical  form,  though  not  in 
rhyme.  He  is  also  a  deep  humorist ;  and  in  the 
proper  time  and  place  a  very  genial  one.  He  is  an 
aboriginal  Uncle  Remus,  full  of  quaint  fables  wherein 
the  coyote  is  the  butt  of  all  jokes  and  is  burlado  by 
every  other  animal.  He  is  himself  a  joker  upon 
occasion,  and  as  an  official  clown  in  certain  ceremo- 
nies is  a  real  genius.  Above  all,  he  recognizes  the 
humor  of  self-containing.  We  find  a  joke  or  a  sensa- 
tion, and  forthwith  itch  to  set  someone  else  agape. 
The  Indian  finds  it  more  humorous  to  laugh  himself 
and  let  the  other  fellow  go  bump  his  head  in  perplex- 
ity as  to  what  it  is  all  about — which  is  a  double  phi- 
losophy. But  when  he  condescends  to  be  funny  he  is 
no  failure.  His  very  nicknames  are  not  those  of  the 
stupid.  He  calls  the  Navajo — who  never  knows 
water  as  a  means  of  grace — "  Dried-up-and-crackecl- 
Skin."  The  Caucasian  is  Hlah  -  fah- deh,  "Hair- 
mouth  ;  "  and  the  Mexican,  specifically,  Pee-peed-deh, 
the  "  Wet-Head  "  (in  allusion,  of  course,  to  baptism). 
The  people  of  Zuni  are  officially  known  in  Tigua  as 
the  "  Scratchers,"  and  Zuni  as  "  Scratch-town  "  —an 
ill-compliment  which  is  too  true  of  Zuni  as  compared 
with  the  cleanlier  other  pueblos.  There  is  even 
sarcasm  sometimes  in  the  nomenclature  of  animals  ; 
and  the  duck  is  "  Old-Man-Afraid-of-the-Water." 


"LO"    WHO  JS  NOT  POOR  49 

Folk-songs  are  as  popular  as  folk-stories,  but 
never  humorous,  save  in  occasional  improvisation. 
The  Pueblo  is  almost  always  a  singer ;  and  bitter 
indeed  must  be  the  night  when  you  will  not  find, 
upon  every  broom-built  hillock  in  the  village,  knots 
of  young  men  chanting  in  unison,  with  strong,  clear 
voices,  their 

Hdy-nah  en-neh  hay-nah. 

Even  "  bees "  prevail.  The  corn-husking  is  done 
thus  with  the  aid  of  young  men  who  go  from  house 
to  house  to  strip  the  blue  ears,  and  roll  their  cigarros 
in  the  rustling  husks,  and  sing  loudly  as  they  work. 
The  women  used  to  join  also  for  their  winter's  grind- 
ing. Each  brought  to  an  appointed  house  her  metate 
and  sack  of  corn.  And  as  the  kernels  fell  to  blue 
meal  between  the  lava  slabs,  there  rose  a  poetic  song 
of  the  birth  of  corn,  swelled  by  the  men,  who  kept 
time  with  tap  of  the  hammer  as  they  shaped  rawhide 
soles  for  their  teguas. 

One  of  these  metate  songs,  literally  translated,  is 
as  follows  : 

How-hay-eh,  yow-ow-dh, 
Hay  yow  yoo-oo, 
Sai  lee  ee.* 

Is  it  not  beautiful?   )  „ 

f  Repeat  five  times. 

Is  it  not,  truly! 
On  every  side  They  are, 
The  Trues,  the  rain-commanders. 
Do  you  not  hear  their  drum  ?  f 
Because  of  that  you  will  see 
This  year  the  vapor  floating  ; 
Because  of  that  you  will  see 

*  Refrain  not  understood  by  the  singers  here.     It  is  probably  borrowed  from 
some  other  language.  \  The  thunder. 


50  "Z6>"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

This  year  the  drizzling  rain. 

Is  it  not  beautiful? 

Is  it  not,  truly ! 

In  all  the  fields  the  corn  upspringing 
Like  the  young  pine  it  comes  up  ; 
Like  the  green  aspen  ; 
In  all  the  fields  the  corn  upspringing, 
Tall  like  the  tail  of  the  thrush  ; 
Tall  like  the  road-runner's  tail,* 
In  all  the  fields  the  corn  upspringing  ! 

Hay  ow  yow  how  hay, 

Yay  yay  yay  yay, 

Yow  how  how  how. 

With  all  this  gregariousness,  the  villages  even  of 
the  same  tribal  stock  are  entirely  independent  and 
aloof  from  each  other.  There  are  six  Pueblo  stocks, 
each  with  an  entirely  distinct  language  of  its  own, 
and  understanding  the  others  only  through  the  diplo- 
matic Spanish — and  yet  they  are  racially  one.  The 
Queres  are  by  far  the  most  numerous,  counting  over 
three  thousand  souls,  and  with  seven  towns.  Next 
come  the  Tiguas  and  the  Moquis,  with  less  than  two 
thousand  people  each,  and  four  and  six  towns  respec- 
tively ;  the  Tehuas,  with  about  one  thousand  five 
hundred  in  five  villages  ;  the  Zufiis,  with  one  town  of 
one  thousand  five  hundred  inhabitants ;  and  Jemez 
one  with  a  third  as  many.  The  towns  of  the  same 
tribe  are  not  even  always  adjacent.  Isleta  and  Taos 
are  the  southern  and  northern  extremes  of  present 
Pueblo  range  ;  and  between  these  chief  Tigua  towns 
are  eleven  villages  of  the  Tehuas  and  the  Queres. 

The  characteristic  architecture  which  the  Pueblo 
had  evolved  before  history  has  been  influenced  only 
downward  by  civilization.  His  astonishing  communal 

*  A  small  pheasant. 


ZO"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


house  has  altogether  disappeared  in  several  villages. 
Taos  is  the  most  striking  example  left  of  the   one- 


TIGUA   GIRLS. 


house  town  ;  and  its  two  villages,  one  on  either  side 
the    rippling    trout-brook,    are,    as    Coronado    found 


52  "LO"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

them,  each  of  a  huge,  six-story  pyramid  house.  In 
Zuni  the  five-story  pyramidal  honey-comb  is  still  po- 
tent, though  clustered  upon  by  detached  blocks. 
Acoma,  the  peerless  cliff-built  citadel  of  the  Queres, 
is  in  three  blocks  of  three  terraces  each.  The  pyra- 
mid, the  block,  the  once  still  commoner  rectangle— 
with  sheer  walls  without,  and  the  terraces  and  doors 
facing  only  the  safe  plaza — and  the  invariable  defen- 
sive site  are  eloquent  witnesses  to  the  dangers  of 
old,  when  every  first  thought  must  be  for  safety  from 
the  crowding  savage.  Convenience,  even  to  water, 
was  a  secondary  consideration.  Of  this,  Acoma  is 
the  most  striking  type.  No  other  town  on  earth  is 
so  nobly  perched.  The  only  foreign  hints  of  it  are 
the  Konigstein,  in  Saxony ;  and  (perhaps)  the  Gwa- 
lior,  in  the  Deccan.  And  these  are  not  so  like  it  as 
are  the  Moqui  towns,  which  are  still  far  less  noble 
than  Acoma. 

Along  the  Rio  Grande,  however,  the  communal 
building  has  largely  given  way  to  separate  homes  of 
one  or  two  stories,  but  larger  rooms.  Even  here  the 
Pueblo  architecture  is  distinguishable  from  the  Mexi- 
can, and  in  artistic  effect  superior  to  it. 

With  a  background  so  invariably  striking  that  the 
stranger  to  his  history  might  well  deem  his  choice  of 
sites  to  have  been  dominated  by  the  scenery^ — for  he 
has  chosen  always  the  most  picturesque  points  of  a 
picturesque  land — the  Pueblo  is  personally  in  accord. 
He  is  the  most — almost  the  only — picturesque  figure 
in  our  conventionalized  land.  Of  medium  but  robust 
stature,  admirable  neck  and  trunk,  never  consumptive, 
scarcely  ever  too  fat,  with  magnificent  black  hair, 
which  is  not  coarse  and  never  leaves  him  unthatched, 


Z<9"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 


53 


he  is  physically  above  the  average  of  his  new  neigh- 
bors, and  lives  to  a  vast  age.  His  face  is  very  far 
from  our  idea  of  an  Indian  physiognomy,  and  is  a 
creditable  index  to  his  contents.  His  national  cos- 
tume, when  unspoiled  by  "  civilized"  perversions,  is 
an  artistic  joy. 
There  is  no 
name  for  the 
"  policy  "  which 
forcibly  changes 
the  Pueblo  girl 
at  school  (a  citi- 
zen, remember) 
from  her  own 
modest,  artistic, 
Oriental  dress 
to  a  gingham 
horror,  not 
worth  a  tenth  as 
*  much  in  money 
or  taste;  and  the 
sin  is  scarce 
smaller  toward 
the  boys.  The 
home  dress  of 
both  sexes  is  far 
ahead  of  ours 
hygienically  and  in  convenience.  The  garb  of  a 
Pueblo  woman  at  home  is  worth  twenty-five  dollars 
or  more ;  and  her  feast-day  array  several  times  that. 
To  this  the  aboriginal  jewelry  largely  contributes. 
Gold  has  never  been  used  ;  but  of  silver,  coral,  and 
turquoise  ornaments,  the  Pueblos  own  much  over 


A   PUEBLO    NIMROD. 


54  "LO"    WHO  IS  NOT  POOR 

$100,000  worth.  The  silver  rosaries,  bracelets,  rings, 
ear-rings,  buttons,  etc.,  are  made  by  their  own  silver- 
smiths, who  achieve  remarkable  results  with  a  mud 
forge,  a  hammer,  a  file,  a  punch,  and  a  little  solder, 
resin,  and  acid.  The  turquoise  is  also  worked  into 
beads  by  their  own  artisans. 

Money,  of  course,  is  less  commonly  accumulated  ; 
yet  I  know  Pueblos  who  have  great  chests  full  of  gold 
and  silver  coin  ;  and  the  largest  business  controlled 
by  any  woman  in  New  Mexico  is  that  of  Dona  Mar- 
celina  Abeita,  of  Isleta,  an  uneducated  Indian  woman. 
She  keeps,  as  all  her  people  keep,  her  ledger  in  her 
head,  and  with  never  a  mistake  of  overcharge  or 
omission.  A  Pueblo  sometimes  takes  temporary  ser- 
vice as  a  laborer  for  the  superior  race.  Quite  as 
often  he  hires  Mexicans  to  assist  in  his  own  work. 

These  are  but  hints  of  the  Pueblo.  Actual  descrip- 
tion of  him  is  not  for  a  book  but  a  library.  I  have 
meant  here  merely  to  graze  the  angles  of  his  entity, 
sketchily  but  truthfully,  in  the  light  of  present  science, 
whereby  he  has  not  yet  been  popularly  viewed ;  and 
even  that,  with  chief  reference  to  the  qualities  of  body 
and  mind,  heart  and  pocket,  which  entitle  him  to  fore- 
most rank  as  "Lo"  who  is  not  "  Poor." 


Ill 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SKY 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SKY 

THERE  is  one  Acoma.*  It  is  a  class  by  itself. 
The  peer  of  it  is  not  in  the  world.  I  might  call 
it  the  Queres  Gibraltar  ;  but  Gibraltar  is  a  pregnable 
place  beside  it.  It  is  the  Quebec  of  the  Southwest ;  but 
Quebec  could  be  stormed  in  the  time  an  army  climbed 
Acoma  unopposed.  If  as  a  defensible  town  there  be 
no  standard  whereby  to  measure  it,  comparison  is 
still  more  hopeless  when  we  attack  its  impregnable 
beauty  and  picturesqueness.  It  is  the  Garden  of  the 
Gods  multiplied  by  ten,  and  with  ten  equal  but  other 
wonders  thrown  in  ;  plus  a  human  interest,  an  archae- 
ological value,  an  atmosphere  of  romance  and  mys- 
tery. It  is  a  labyrinth  of  wonders  of  which  no  person 
alive  knows  all,  and  of  which  not  six  white  men  have 
even  an  adequate  conception,  though  hundreds  have 
seen  it  in  part.  The  longest  visit  never  wears  out  its 
glamour :  one  feels  as  in  a  strange,  sweet,  unearthly 
dream — as  among  scenes  and  beings  more  than 
human,  whose  very  rocks  are  genii,  and  whose  people 
swart  conjurors.  It  is  spendthrift  of  beauty.  There 
are  half  a  hundred  cattle  and  sheep  corrals,  whose 
surroundings  would  be  the  fortune  of  as  many  sum- 
mer-resorts in  the  East ;  and  scores  of  untrodden 
cliff-sentinelled  gorges  far  grander  yet. 

*  Pronounced  Ah-co-mah  ;  accent  on  first  syllable. 


58  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

If  there  is  any  sight  in  the  world  which  will  cling  to 
one,  undimmed  by  later  impressions,  it  is  the  first 
view  of  Acoma  and  its  valley  from  the  mesa  *  as  one 
comes  in  from  the  west.  After  the  long,  slow  slope 
among  the  sprawling  cedars,  one  stands  suddenly 
upon  a  smooth  divide,  looking  out  upon  such  a  scene 
as  is  nowhere  else.  A  few  rods  ahead,  the  mesa 
breaks  down  in  a  swift  cliff  of  six  hundred  feet  to  a 
valley  that  seems  surely  enchanted.  A  grassy  trough, 
five  miles  wide  and  ten  in  visible  length,  smooth  with 
that  ineffable  hazy  smoothness  which  is  only  of  the 
Southwest,  crowded  upon  by  noble  precipices,  patched 
with  exquisite  hues  of  rocks  and  clays  and  growing 
crops — it  is  such  a  vista  as  would  be  impossible  out- 
side the  arid  lands.  And  in  its  midst  lies  a  shadowy 
world  of  crags  so  unearthly  beautiful,  so  weird,  so 
unique,  that  it  is  hard  for  the  onlooker  to  believe  him- 
self in  America,  or  upon  this  dull  planet  at  all.  As  the 
evening  shadows  play  hide-and-seek  among  those  tow- 
ering sandstones  it  is  as  if  an  army  of  Titans  marched 
across  the  enchanted  plain.  To  the  left  beetles  the 
vast  cliff  of  Kat-zi-mo,  or  the  Mesa  Encantada,  the 
noblest  single  rock  in  America ;  to  the  right,  the  tall 
portals  of  two  fine  canons,  themselves  treasure-houses 
of  wonders  ;  between,  the  chaos  of  the  buttes  that 
flank  the  superb  mesa  of  Acoma.  That  is  one  rock 
—a  dizzy  air-island  above  the  plain — three  hundred 
and  fifty-seven  feet  high,  seventy  acres  in  area  upon 
its  irregular  but  practically  level  top — a  stone  table 
upheld  by  ineffable  precipices  which  are  not  merely 
perpendicular  but  in  great  part  actually  overhanging. 
The  contour  of  those  cliffs  is  an  endless  enchantment. 

*  Table-land  with  cliff  sides. 


THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY  6 1 

They  are  broken  by  scores  of  marvellous  bays,  scores 
of  terrific  columns  and  pinnacles,  crags  and  towers. 
There  are  dozens  of  "  natural  bridges,"  from  one  of  a 
fathom's  span  to  one  so  sublime,  so  crushing  in  its 
savage  and  enormous  grandeur,  that  the  heart  fairly 
stops  beating  at  first  sight  of  it.  There  are  strange 
standing  rocks  and  balanced  rocks,  vast  potreros  and 
fairy  minarets,  wonderlands  of  recesses,  and  myste- 
rious caves.  It  is  the  noblest  specimen  of  fantastic 
erosion  on  the  continent.  Everywhere  there  is  in- 
sistent suggestion  of  Assyrian  sculpture  in  its  rocks. 
One  might  fancy  it  a  giant  Babylon,  water-worn  to 
dimness.  The  peculiar  cleavage  of  its  beautiful  sand- 
stone has  hemmed  it  with  strange  top-heavy  statues 
that  guard  grim  chasms.  The  invariable  approach  of 
visitors  is  to  the  tamest  side  of  the  mesa  /  and  that 
surpasses  what  one  shall  find  elsewhere.  But  to  out- 
do one's  wildest  dreams  of  the  picturesque,  one  should 
explore  the  whole  circumference  of  the  mesa,  which 
not  a  half  a  dozen  Americans  have  ever  done.  No 
one  has  ever  exhausted  Acoma ;  those  who  know  it 
best  are  forever  stumbling  upon  new  glories. 

Upon  the  bare  table-top  of  this  strange  stone  island 
of  the  desert,  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea,  stands  a  town  of  matchless  interest — the  home 
of  half  a  thousand  quaint  lives,  and  of  half  a  thousand 
years'  romance.  How  old  is  that  mysterious  sky  city 
no  man  may  know.  In  the  far  gray  past  Acoma 
stood  atop  the  Mesa  Encantada,  three  miles  north ; 
but  a  mighty  throe  of  nature  toppled  down  the  vast 
ladder-rock  which  gave  sole  adit  to  that  dizzy  perch- 
twice  as  high  as  the  now  Acoma.  The  people  were 
left  homeless  in  the  plain,  where  they  were  tending 


62  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

their  crops ;  and  three  doomed  women,  left  at  home, 
were  shut  aloft  to  perish  upon  the  accursed  cliff.  But 
when  the  Spanish  world-finders  saw  this  magic  valley 
the  present  Acoma  was  already  an  ancient  city,  from 
whose  eternal  battlements  the  painted  natives  looked 
down  upon  the  mailed  invaders  by  as  many  hundreds 
of  feet  as  centuries  have  since  then  faded.  There 
stand,  so  far  aloft,  the  quaint  homes  of  six  hundred 
people — three  giant  blocks  of  stone  and  adobe,  run- 
ning east  and  west  near  a  thousand  feet,  and  skyward 
forty — and  their  huge  church.  When  one  has  climbed 
the  mesa  to  the  town  and  grasped  its  proportions, 
wonder  grows  to  amaze.  No  other  town  in  the  world 
is  reached  only  by  such  vertiginous  trails,  or  rather 
by  such  ladders  of  the  rock ;  and  yet  up  these  awful 
paths  the  patient  Queres  have  brought  upon  their 
backs  every  timber,  every  stone,  every  bit  of  adobe 
mud  to  build  that  strange  city  and  its  marvellous 
church.  There  are  timbers  fourteen  inches  square 
and  forty  feet  long,  brought  by  human  muscle  alone 
from  the  mountains  twenty  miles  away.  The  church 
walls  are  sixty  feet  high  and  ten  feet  through  ;  and 
the  building  covers  more  ground  than  any  modern 
cathedral  in  the  United  States.  The  graveyard  in 
front,  nearly  two  hundred  feet  square,  took  forty  years 
in  the  building ;  for  first  the  gentle  toilers  had  to  frame 
a  giant  box  with  stone  walls,  a  box  forty  feet  deep  at 
the  outer  edge,  and  then  to  fill  it  backful  by  backful 
with  earth  from  the  far  plain.  In  the  weird  stone 
"  ladders  "  by  which  the  top  of  the  cliff  is  reached, 
the  patient  moccasined  feet  of  forgotten  centuries 
have  sunk  their  imprint  six  inches  deep  in  the  rock. 
Antiquity  and  mystery  haunt  every  nook.  The  very 


THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY  63 

air  is  hazy  with  romance.  How  have  they  lived  and 
loved  and  suffered  here  in  their  skyward  home,  these 
quiet  Hano  Oshatch — the  Children  of  the  Sun. 

Acoma  is  thirteen  miles  south  of  the  Atlantic  &  Pa- 
cific Railroad,  in  the  western  half  of  New  Mexico. 
The  best  stations  from  which  to  reach  it  are  Laguna 
(its  daughter  pueblo)  and  McCarty's,  from  either  of 
which  places  an  Indian  may  be  procured  to  transport 
the  visitor  by  farm-wagon. 

Acoma  figures  in  our  very  first  knowledge  of  the 
Southwest ;  and  the  earliest  European  eyes  that  ever 
saw  it  marvelled  as  we  marvel  yet.  In  spite  of  the 
closet  historians,  Cabeza  de  Vaca  never  saw  New 
Mexico.  The  heroic  Franciscan,  Fray  Marcos  of 
Nizza,  in  1539,  was  the  first  civilized  man  who  ever 
looked  upon  that  strangest  landmark  of  our  antiquity, 
a  Pueblo  town.  But  he  never  got  beyond  the  pueb- 
los of  Zufii — the  famed  "  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola  "• 
though  he  heard  of  Acoma.  In  1540  the  most  re- 
markable of  all  explorers  of  North  America,  Fran- 
cisco Vasquez  Coronado,  saw  Zuni,  and  a  little  later 
came  to  the  more  wondrous  town  of  which  the  Zunis 
had  told  him — Ha-cu-que,  Ah-co,  Acoma.  Of  its 
salient  wonders  he  has  left  us  a  very  accurate  descrip- 
tion. We  may  well  imagine  that  the  awestruck  sav- 
ages were  no  more  astounded  at  their  first  sight  of 
fair-faced  strangers  than  were  the  latter  at  that  thrice- 
wondrous  town.  There  were  grizzled  veterans  there 
who  had  been  with  the  Great  Captain,  Cortez,  in  his 
conquest  of  the  southern  wonderland ;  but  they  had 
never  found  anything  like  this.  The  adobe  city  of 
Motecuzoma,  in  the  bloody  lake  of  Tezcuco — it  was 
bigger,  but  what  was  it  to  this  sky-built  citadel  ? 


64  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

That  with  its  strong  walls  and  narrow  dykes  was 
ill  enough  to  storm,  and  worse  to  retreat  from  ;  but 
what  would  be  a  Noche  Triste  among  these  grim 
cliffs  ?  Fortunately,  there  was  no  need  to  learn.  The 
Acomas  received  the  wondrous  strangers  kindly,  tak- 
ing them  for  gods ;  and  Coronado  and  his  heroic  lit- 
tle band  pressed  on  unmolested  to  the  Rio  Grande 
and  to  their  unprecedented  march  of  exploration  in 
chase  of  the  gilded  myth  of  the  Quivira. 

It  was  near  half  a  century  after  Coronado's  gal- 
lant but  ill-starred  exploits  before  the  adventurous 
Spaniards  were  again  tempted  to  the  discouraging 
deserts  of  our  Southwest.  Truly  there  was  little 
enough  to  tempt  them  !  Utterly  disappointed  in  the 
golden  hopes  which  had  led  them  to  such  rovings  as 
no  other  nation  paralleled  anywhere,  and,  finding 
almost  as  little  of  other  attractions  as  of  gold,  they 
long  devoted  themselves  to  the  more  grateful  coun- 
tries to  our  south.  It  was  not  until  that  pre-eminent 
figure  among  the  colonizers  of  North  America,  the 
unspoiled  millionaire  Juan  de  Ofiate,  came  with  his 
five-hundred-thousand-dollar  expedition,  that  perma- 
nent work  began  to  be  done  in  New  Mexico  ;  though 
before  him,  and  after  Coronado,  Chamuscado,  Espejo, 
and  de  Sosa  had  made  notable  successive  explora- 
tions here.  In  1581  Espejo  visited  Acoma,  and  there 
saw  the  astounding  snake-dance  which  now  survives 
alone  in  remote  Moqui — a  dance  wherein  the  half- 
naked  performers  bear  living,  mortal  rattlesnakes  in 
their  hands  and  mouths.  Espejo  also  was  well  treated 
in  Acoma,  and  gave  us  a  good  description  of  its  won- 
ders, though  his  guess  at  the  population  was  as  wild 
as  his  guesses  at  the  other  pueblos.  He  was  the  one 


THE    CITY  IN  THE   SKY  65 

glaring  exception  to  the  painstaking  accuracy  of  the 
Spanish  explorers  in  their  chronicles  of  wonders  seen. 

The  first  real  foothold  of  Europeans  in  Acoma  was 
achieved  in  1598,  when  the  Acomas  voluntarily  sub- 
mitted themselves  to  the  authority  of  Onate  and  be- 
came vassals  of  the  Spanish  crown,  swearing  to  the 
Act  of  Obedience,  whose  purport  was  fully  explained 
to  them.  But  the  submission  was  not  in  good  faith. 
The  Indians  had  no  idea  of  real  surrender  ;  but  these 
stranger  Men-of-Power  might  not  be  openly  opposed, 
and  it  was  best  to  move  by  treachery.  The  war  cap- 
tains had  already  laid  their  plans  to  entrap  and  slay 
Onate,  believing  that  his  death  would  materially 
weaken  the  Spaniards.  But  Onate's  lucky  star  led 
him  out  of  the  unsuspected  danger ;  and  with  his  wee 
army  he  proceeded  on  that  grim  desert  march  to 
Moqui. 

Scarcely  had  he  gone  when  his  lieutenant,  Juan  de 
Zaldivar,  arrived  with  a  dozen  men  from  a  vast  jour- 
ney. The  Acomas  enticed  them  up  into  the  town, 
fell  upon  them  by  daylight,  and  bungled  them  to 
death  with  clubs  and  flint  knives.  Five  bleeding 
heroes  leaped  down  the  ghastly  cliff — a  leap  unparal- 
leled. Wonderful  to  tell,  only  one  was  killed  by  that 
incredible  fall  ;  the  remaining  four  lived,  and  finally 
escaped. 

In  the  following  month — as  soon  as  the  weak  Span- 
ish resources  could  be  marshalled — Onate  sent  a  lit- 
tle band  to  punish  treacherous  Acoma.  Never  did 
soldiers  march  to  a  forlorner  hope  ;  and  never  in  all 
history  was  there  a  greater  feat  of  arms  than  the 
storming  of  that  impregnable  rock  by  Vicente  de 
Zaldivar  with  seventy  men — of  whom  less  than  three- 
5 


66  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

score  were  engaged  in  the  assault — on  the  bloody 
22d,  23d,  and  24th  of  January,  1599.  The  forcing  of 
that  awful  cliff,  the  three  days'  death-struggle  hand- 
to-hand,  the  storming  of  that  fortress-town  room  by 
savage  room — time  records  nothing  more  desper- 
ately brilliant.  These  smooth,  gray  rocks,  whereon 
I  dream  to-day,  were  slippery-red  then  with  the  life- 
blood  of  five  hundred  heroes— for  here  Greek  met 
Greek — and  ghastly  rivulets  ran  down  the  hollows 
and  trickled  over  the  cliff  to  the  thirsty  valley.  This 
drowsy  air  was  split  with  the  war-cry  of  Santiago 
and  the  shrill  enemy-yell  of  the  Hero  Brothers ;  and 
where  yon  naked  babes  sport  dimpled  in  a  dim- 
pling pool,  stark  warriors  wallowed  in  a  grimmer  bath, 
and  gasped  from  dying  lips  undying  hate.  Over  yon 
dizzy  brink  I  toss  unanswering  pebbles  to  the  deep 
plain,  where  maddened  savages  sprang  forth  to  death 
in  spatters.  And  where  yon  statuesque  maiden 
walks  placidly,  a  great  gay  tinaja  of  water  perched 
upon  her  shapely  head,  a  gray,  tattered,  bleeding 
Spaniard  received  the  surrender  of  the  scant  remnant 
of  crushed  Acoma.  In  the  precious  epic  left  by  Villa- 
gran,  the  soldier  poet,  who  was  pars  magna  of  those 
bitter  days,  we  have  still  a  long  and  graphic  de- 
scription of  a  heroism  which  history  could  ill  afford 
to  lose. 

Thirty  years  later  there  was  another  capture  of 
Acoma,  as  remarkable  and  as  heroic  as  Zaldivar's 
marvellous  assault,  but  with  other  weapons.  In  that 
year  of  1629  came  the  apostle  of  the  Acomas,  brave, 
gentle  Fray  Juan  Ramirez,  walking  his  perilous  way 
alone  from  distant  Santa  Fe.  His  new  parishioners 
received  him  with  a  storm  of  arrows.  There  is  a  cur- 


THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY  6? 

rent  legend  that  they  threw  him  off  the  cliff,  and  that 
his  priestly  robes  upheld  him  miraculously  and  saved 
his  life  ;  but  this  is  a  myth  without  foundation  of  fact. 
It  probably  sprang,  partly,  from  confusion  with  the 
marvellous  and  real  escape  of  Onate's  four  men  who 
leaped  over  the  cliff  and  lived,  and  partly  from  a  mis- 
understanding of  the  Indian  folk  -  lore.  The  un- 
daunted Franciscan  faced  the  wrath  of  the  savages, 
and  finally  won  their  hearts.  For  a  score  of  years 
he  lived  alone  among  them,  taught  them  to  read  and 
write,  and  led  them  to  Christianity.  The  first  church 
in  Acoma,  built  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  was  one 
of  the  monuments  of  this  as  noble  and  successful 
missionary  as  ever  lived. 

And  then  came  the  awful  month  of  San  tana,  1680, 
when  the  Pueblo  thunderbolt  burst  from  a  clear  sky 
upon  the  doomed  Spaniards.  Nowhere  else  in  the 
history  of  the  United  States,  save  at  the  Little  Big- 
horn, was  there  such  a  massacre  of  Caucasians  by 
Indians  as  on  that  red  loth  of  August.  More  than  a 
score  of  devoted  missionaries,  more  than  four  hun- 
dred heroic  Spanish  colonists,  were  butchered  then, 
in  a  blow  that  fell  across  all  New  Mexico  at  once  ; 
and  the  pitiful  remnant  of  the  invader  was  driven 
from  the  land.  In  Acoma  was  then  the  good  Fran- 
ciscan, Fray  Lucas  Maldonado.  How  his  treacher- 
ous flock  fell  upon  the  lone  martyr  ;  if  they  thrust 
him  off  the  wild  precipice  that  girt  his  parish  (as 
their  own  legend  says),  or  beat  out  life  from  the  quiv- 
ering clay  with  clubs  and  stones,  or  spilt  it  from 
gashes  with  the  cruel  flint  knife,  we  may  never  know. 
All  that  is  left  to  us  is  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
slaughtered  here,  and  here  fills  an  unknown  grave ; 


68  THE    CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

and  that  the  dearly  built  temple  of  the  white  God  was 

c  razed  to  the  earth.  With  it  went  the  thumbed  church- 
books,  that  would  have  been  so  precious  to  history 
and  to  romance  to-day. 

When  Diego  de   Vargas,  the    re-conqueror,    took 

,  back  New  Mexico  in  1692,  Acoma  surrendered  at 
once  to  his  formidable  force  of  two  hundred  men.  In 

.  1696  the  high-perched  pueblo  again  rebelled.  Var- 
gas marched  against  it,  but  could  not  storm  the 
deadly  rock ;  and  the  rebellion  was  never  punished. 
The  Acomas,  however,  seeing  all  the  other  pueblos 
submitting  to  the  humane  invader,  gradually  relented 
from  their  defiance  and  fell  into  line.  The  mission 

,  was  re-established,  and  the  church  rebuilt,  about  the 
year  1700.  Since  then  the  quaint  town  has  dwelt  in 
peace.  In  1728  was  the  last  attempt  at  a  Pueblo  up- 
rising, but  in  that  Acoma  was  not  concerned ;  and 
the  Franciscan  Fathers  labored  undisturbed  in  their 
lonely  field.  The  last  Franciscan  in  New  Mexico, 
Fray  Mariano  de  Jesus  Lopez,  was  priest  of  Acoma 
more  than  a  generation  ago.  He  it  was  who  settled 
the  strange  quarrel  between  Acoma  and  Laguna  over 
the  possession  of  the  oil  painting  of  San  Jose,  pre- 
sented by  Charles  II.  of  Spain  to  the  Indians  three- 
quarters  of  a  century  before — a  remarkable  case, 
which  figures  interestingly  in  the  reports  of  the  Su- 
preme Court  of  New  Mexico.  The  good  old  fraile 
met  death  by  the  accidental  discharge  of  a  venerable 
pistol. 

Laguna,  by  the  way — itself  a  very  interesting  spot, 
directly  upon  the  A.  &  P.  R.  R.,  where  its  strange 
architecture  is  the  wonder  of  thousands  of  travellers 
— is  the  newest  of  all  the  pueblos.  It  was  founded 


THE    CITY  IN   THE   SKY  69 

July  4,  1699,  by  refugees  from  Acoma  (which  contrib- 
uted a  large  majority),  Zia,  and  Cochiti.  Later  it 
received  recruits  also  from  Zuni. 

The  people  of  Acoma  are  quaint  as  their  remarkable 
city.  In  their  very  simplicity  breathes  an  atmosphere 
of  the  mysterious.  Tangibly  they  are  plain,  indus- 
trious farmers,  strongly  Egyptian  in  their  methods,  t 
despite  the  steel  plough  and  the  Studebacker  wagon 
of  recent  adoption.  Their  lands  are  95,791  acres, 
confirmed  by  United  States  patent.  Of  this  area  the 
great  majority  is  available  only  for  grazing  ;  but  the 
valley  wherein  the  mesa  stands,  the  well-watered  val- 
ley of  the  San  Jose,  twelve  miles  northwest,  wherein 
is  their  summer  pueblo  of  Acomita,  and  some  minor 
areas,  are  threaded  with  irrigating  ditches,  and  rustle 
with  corn  and  wheat,  chile,  beans,  and  wee  peach 
orchards  and  melon  patches.  Their  crops  are  ade- 
quate. They  have  enough  to  eat,  enough  to  sell  for 
luxuries.  The  dark  store-rooms  in  their  curious 
houses  are  never  empty ;  and  in  the  living-rooms 
hang  queer  tasajos  (twists)  of  dried  muskmelon  for 
dwarf  pies,  bags  of  dried  peaches  for  the  same  end, 
jerked  mutton  from  their  own  flocks,  jerked  venison 
from  the  communal  hunt,  parched  chile,  and  other 
staples.  In  a  corner  is  always  the  row  of  sloping 
lava  slabs,  neatly  boxed  about,  whereon  the  blue  corn 
is  rubbed  to  meal  with  a  smaller  slab.  Along  the 
walls  hang  buckskins  and  Moqui  -  woven  mantas,* 
cougar-skin  bow-cases  beside  the  Winchester,  coral 
necklaces  and  solid  silver  necklaces,  the  work  of  their 
own  clever  smiths,  and  many  other  aboriginal  treas- 
ures. The  cleanly  and  comfortable  wool  mattresses 

*  Dress  of  Pueblo  women. 


70  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

are  rolled  and  laid  on  benches  with  handsome  and 
often  costly  Navajo  blankets,  for  a  daytime  sofa.  By 
night  they  are  unrolled  upon  rugs  or  canvases  on  the 
floor.  In  one  corner  is  the  wee  but  effective  adobe 
fireplace,  with  chimney  generally  of  unbottomed 
earthen  jars,  and  in  another  a  row  of  handsome  tin- 
ajas,  painted  in  strange  patterns,  full  of  fresh  water. 

Outside,  the  house  is  even  more  picturesque.  Each 
building  is  solid  for  several  hundred  feet,  but  cut  by 
cross -walls  into  separate  little  homes  which  never 
have  interior  communication  with  each  other.  The 
block  is  three  stories  high,  with  a  sheer  wall  behind 
but  terraced  in  front,  so  that  it  looks  like  a  flight  of 
three  gigantic  steps.  Save  in  a  very  few  cases  of  re- 
cent innovation,  there  are  no  doors  to  the  lower  floor ; 
and  the  only  entrance  to  a  house  is  by  ladder  to  the 
roof  of  the  first  story,  well  back  upon  which  the  sec- 
ond story  opens.  The  only  entrance  to  the  first 
story  is  through  a  tiny  trap-door  in  the  floor  of  the 
second  and  down  a  ladder.  The  third  story  and  the 
utmost  roof  are  reached  by  queer  little  steps  on  the 
division  walls.  The  doors  are  nearly  all  very  tiny, 
and  the  windows,  save  of  a  few  spoiled  houses,  are 
merely  big  sheets  of  translucent  gypsum,  set  solidly 
into  the  opening. 

The  costumes  of  the  people  are  strikingly  pictur- 
esque, and  even  handsome.  That  of  the  women  in 
particular  is  Oriental,  characteristic,  and  modest. 
Not  only  that,  but  it  is  costly.  These  quiet  folks, 
whose  facial  appearance  is  generally  comely,  are  far 
from  naked  savages. 

The  main  mesa  of  Acoma  is  an  indented  oval ;  but 
at  the  south  it  is  half  yoked  by  an  impassable  hyphen 


72  THE   CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

of  crags  to  a  similar  and  equally  noble  mesa.  So  the 
whole  rock,  at  a  bird's-eye  view,  strikingly  resembles, 
in  shape,  a  pair  of  bowed  spectacles.  There  are  no 
dwellings  on  the  southern  mesa  ;  but  thither  leads- 
down  the  side  of  the  crag-hyphen  and  up  again 

—a  trail,  deep  worn  in  the  rock,  to  the  great  reser- 
voir, chief  of  the  many  hollows  which  serve  Acoma 
for  water-works.  This  reservoir — a  picturesquely 
beautiful  cavity  in  the  solid  rock — should  be  seen  at 
sunrise,  when  the  strange  lights  and  shadows,  the 
clear  image  of  its  bluff  walls  in  the  mirror  of  a  lakelet 
make  it  a  vision  never  to  be  forgotten.  On  the  main 
mesa  are  a  great  many  somewhat  similar  tanks,  large 
and  small ;  the  natural  capacity  of  the  larger  ones  in- 
creased by  damming.  Those  nearest  the  houses  are 
used  as  the  town  washtubs  for  clothing  and  children 

—for  the  Acomas  are  cleanly — and  the  farther  ones 
for  drinking-water,  of  which  the  great  tank  on  the 
south  mesa,  however,  furnishes  the  main  supply.  In 
the  high,  dry  air  of  this  altitude,  these  natural  stone 
reservoirs  keep  the  rain-water  cool  and  fresh  the 
whole  year  around;  and  the  supply  almost  never  fails. 
When  it  does,  there  are  fine  springs  in  the  plain 
whereupon  to  draw.  Every  drop  of  water  used  in 
the  houses  is  brought  by  the  women  in  three  to  five 
gallon  tinajds  upon  their  heads — an  exercise  which 
may  be  largely  responsible  for  the  superb  necks  and 
chests  and  the  confident  poise  of  head  notable  among 
all  Pueblo  women.  There  is  no  more  picturesque 
sight  than  the  long  file  of  these  comely  maids  and 
matrons  marching  homeward  in  the  sunset  glow  with 
their  careless  head-burdens. 

Across  the  far,  smooth  valley  the  curling  gramma 


74  THE    CITY  IN  THE   SKY 

is  dotted  with  broad  herds  of  horses,  cattle,  burros  ; 
and  back  in  the  surrounding"  wilderness  of  table-lands 
are  great  flocks  of  sheep.  Nightly,  as  the  sun  falls 
back  upon  the  huge  black  pillow  of  the  Mesa  Prieta, 
the  hundreds  of  horses  and  burros  are  driven  to  the 
mesa's  top  by  a  new  trail  which  has  been  builded 
with  infinite  toil  since  peace  came.  By  the  old  trails 
—which  sufficed  the  town  for  unknown  centuries — • 
not  even  a  goat  could  mount  the  giant  rock. 

Such,  to  the  casual  sight,  are  the  folk  of  Acoma, 
and  such  their  surroundings  ;  but,  as  one  looks,  there 
grows  consciousness  of  the  mystery  within.  Here 
and  there  are  windowless  rooms,  reached  only  by  a 
trapdoor  in  the  roof  and  by  a  tall,  rude  ladder  topped 
with  mystic  symbols.  No  stranger  may  enter  there  ; 
but  white-headed  principales  climb  in  and  out,  and 
strange  muffled  songs  float  off  over  the  housetops  far 
into  the  night,  with  now  and  then  the  dull  beat  of  the 
tombe ;  and  now  and  then  is  the  watcher  aware  of 
an  invisible  spiral  of  smoke  curling  above  the  dark 
hatchway — from  the  sacred  fire  that  never  died  nor 
ever  shall.  When  Pa-yat-ya-ma,  the  Sun  Father, 
shows  his  ruddy  face  above  the  eastern  mesas,  and 
again  when  he  sinks  into  the  dark  ridges  of  the  west, 
there  are  stirless  human  statues  upon  the  housetops 
that  show  for  more  than  careless  lookouts.  In  the 
houses  are  mysterious  symbols  which  the  stranger 
dare  not  touch.  In  wild  cave  shrines  above  and  be- 
low the  cliffs  are  thousands  of  unknowable  sticks 
tufted  with  downy  feathers,  miniature  bows  and  ar- 
rows like  those  of  Mau-sa-we  and  O-ya-we,  and  wee 
imitations  of  the  magic  hoop.  Quaint,  tiny  parcels  of 
the  sacred  corn-meal,  wrapped  and  tied  with  the  pre- 


THE    CITY  IN  THE   SKY  75 

clous  husk,  are  stowed  everywhere  in  crannies  of  the 
infinite  rocks.  Everywhere  are  these  hints  of  solemn 
mysteries,  into  which  the  visitor  shall  do  well  not  to 
pry.  In  a  dizzy  eyrie  of  the  southern  mesa,  safe 
enough  from  the  inquisitive,  is  perched  a  perfect 
cliff-house — startling  link  back  to  antiquity.  Few 
strangers  have  ever  seen  it ;  few  ever  will,  for  the 
climbing  is  a  neck's  worth  ;  but  there  it  is,  gray,  im- 
passive relict  of  the  Forgotten.  There  are  strange, 
symbolic  foot-races  and  stranger  dances,  the  least  of 
which  the  world  may  see  on  the  feast  of  San  Esteban, 
the  patron  saint  of  Acoma,  September  2d,  and  on 
other  holy  days ;  but  upon  the  chief  ones  no  stranger 
has  ever  looked.  They  are  more  secret  than  the 
Inquisition. 

Beside  the  sun-seared  graveyard,  where  the  dead 
of  centuries  sleep  unmindful  that  their  crowded  bones 
are  jostled  by  each  new-comer  unto  rest,  is  a  minia- 
ture mountain  of  breakage.  If  you  watch  when  the 
still  form,  swathed  in  its  costliest  blanket,  has  been 
lowered  into  its  narrow  bed ;  when  upon  the  earthen 
coverlet  has  been  broken  the  symbolic  jar  of  water ; 
when  from  the  tottering  belfry  has  pealed  the  last 
silver  clang  of  the  high  bell  with  its  legend,  "  San 
Pedro,  aiio  1710  ;  "  when  the  wailing  mourners  have 
filed  away  to  the  desolate  house  where  the  Shamans 
are  blinding  the  eyes  of  the  ghosts,  that  they  may 
not  find  the  trail  of  the  evanished  soul  on  its  four- 
days'  journey  to  Shi-p'a-pii — then  you  shall  see  borne 
forth  jars  and  hand-mills  and  weapons  and  ornaments 
and  clothing,  to  be  broken  and  rent  upon  the  killing- 
place,  that  they  may  go  on  with  their  departed  owner. 
When  old  men  meet  and  part  you  may  see  that  each 


76  THE   CITY  IN   THE   SKY 

takes  the  other's  hand  to  his  mouth  and  breathes  from 
it ;  and  that  when  they  smoke  they  blow  the  first  six 
puffs  to  different  directions.  Every  man  wears  a 
little  pouch  which  money  will  not  unlock.  Each 
knows  words  which  he  may  not  utter  aloud  in  any 
finite  presence.  Each  has  goings  out  and  comings 
in  which  none  must  spy  upon. 

And  so  at  every  turn  there  are  hints  and  flashes  of 
the  unknown  and  the  unknowable,  the  pettiest  of 
which  you  shall  try  in  vain  to  fathom.  Their  mar- 
vellous mythology,  their  infinitely  complicated  social, 
religious,  and  political  economies,  their  exhaustless 
and  beautiful  fore  lore — of  all  you  shall  everywhere 
find  clues,  but  nowhere  knowledge.  And  as  the 
rumbling  farm-wagon  jolts  you  back  from  your  en- 
chanted dream  to  the  prosy  wide-awake  of  civilization, 
you  shall  go  to  be  forever  haunted  by  that  unearthly 
cliff,  that  weird  city,  and  their  unguessed  dwellers. 


IV 
THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 


UNTIL  recent  times  the  practice  of  self-flagella- 
tion— as  a  religious  custom — continued  to 
manifest  itself  intermittently  in  the  south  of  France, 
and  also  in  Italy  and  Spain  ;  and  so  late  as  1820  a 
procession  of  flagellants  took  place  at  Lisbon."  So 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  winds  up  what  is  in- 
tended to  be  a  complete  outline  of  the  history  of  self- 
whipping  as  a  means  of  grace. 

Aye,  verily!  And  so  late  as  1891  a  procession  of 
flagellants  took  place  within  the  limits  of  the  United 
States.  A  procession  in  which  voters  of  this  Re- 
public shredded  their  naked  backs  with  savage 
whips,  staggered  beneath  huge  crosses,  and  hugged 
the  maddening  needles  of  the  cactus ;  a  procession 
which  culminated  in  the  flesh-and-blood  crucifixion  of 
an  unworthy  representative  of  the  Redeemer.  Nor 
was  this  an  isolated  horror.  Every  Good  Friday,  for 
many  generations,  it  has  been  a  staple  custom  to 
hold  these  barbarous  rites  in  parts  of  New  Mexico. 

It  is  surprising  that  none  of  the  encyclopaedias  give 
a  hint  of  the  existence  of  the  Order  of  Penitents  in 
the  United  States.  Nor  has  any  book  *  contained 
anything  like  the  truth  about  this  astounding  fact. 
This  ignoring  of  the  subject  is  the  more  remarkable 

*  Except  a  juvenile  of  my  own,  which  has  a  short  sketch. 


8o  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

because  the  institution  is  no  new  thing  ;  and  hundreds 
of  Saxon-Americans  have  witnessed  it. 

The  idea  of  the  whip  as  a  means  of  grace  is  one  of 
the  oldest  in  the  history  of  nations.  Herodotus  tells 
us  that  the  ancient  Egyptians  flogged  themselves  in 
honor  of  Isis.  The  boys  of  Sparta  were  whipped 
before  the  altar  of  Artemis  Orthia.  In  the  Roman 
Lupercalia  the  devout  citizens  esteemed  it  a  felicity 
to  be  struck  by  the  leathern  thongs  of  the  Luperci. 
And  by  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century  the  Christian 
church  came  to  recognize  the  virtues  of  the  lash  for 
offending  monks — a  remedy  to  whose  efficacy  several 
provincial  councils  testified.  About  the  end  of  the 
eleventh  century,  Cardinal  Peter  Damian  preached  and 
practised  self-whipping  as  a  penance,  and  inspired  a 
considerable  following.  About  1210,  St.  Anthony  of 
Padua  founded  the  first  fraternity  for  regular  and 
public  self-practice  with  the  rod  as  a  religious  cere- 
mony. Half  a  century  later  the  struggling  order  took 
a  sudden  lease  of  vigorous  life  in  Italy,  by  the  efforts 
of  a  Perugian  monk  named  Rainer.  Rich  and  poor 
walked  with  leathern  whips  through  the  streets  of 
Perugia,  whipping  themselves  until  "  they  drew  blood 
from  their  tortured  bodies  amid  sighs  and  tears,  sing- 
ing at  the  same  time  penitential  psalms  and  entreating 
the  compassions  of  the  Deity."  Penitent  pilgrims 
soon  carried  the  strange  infection  throughout  Italy, 
Bavaria,  Bohemia,  Austria,  Hungary,  and  Poland. 
For  a  long  time  their  cuticular  devotions  evoked  vast 
admiration  ;  but  presently  Church  and  State  alike  for- 
bade their  exhibitions.  The  eruption  broke  out  again 
in  Hungary  after  the  great  plague  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  spread  to  Germany.  The  attempt  of  1 20 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  8 1 

Flagellants  to  convert  England  to  their  practices, 
signally  failed.  Then  the  Catholic  Church  aroused  it- 
self in  earnest.  Pope  Clement  VI.  fulminated  a  bull 
against  the  order  in  1349;  and  under  Gregory  XL 
the  Inquisition  made  it  literally  so  hot  for  the  fanatics 
that  they  disappeared.  In  1414,  Conrad  Schmidt  and 
his  foremost  followers  were  executed  for  trying  to 
revive  the  custom  in  Thuringia.  A  mitigated  phase 
of  the  practice  prevailed  in  France  in  the  sixteenth 
century ;  but  the  fraternities  of  flagellants  seldom 
whipped  in  public.  It  is  even  of  record  that  Henry 
III.  of  France  established  a  whipping  brotherhood  in 
Paris  and  personally  participated  in  its  processions- 
all  for  political  effect.  His  successor  suppressed  the 
fraternities  in  France  ;  but  the  spirit  of  fanaticism  has 
never  been  entirely  dead,  and  sporadic  instances  of 
the  custom  have  been  cropping  out  here  and  there 
ever  since. 

The  order  of  Los  Hermanos  Penitentes  (the  Peni- 
tent Brothers)  was  founded  in  Spain  some  300  years 
ago.  It  had  nothing  of  the  scourge  in  its  original 
plan.  Its  members  met  for  religious  study  and  con- 
versation, and  were  men  of  good  morals  and  good 
sense  "  according  to  their  lights."  The  seeds  of  the 
order  were  brought  to  Mexico,  and  later  to  what  is 
now  New  Mexico,  by  the  Franciscan  friars  with  the 
Spanish  Conquistador es.  The  first  public  penance 
in  New  Mexico  (as  it  then  was)  was  by  Juan  de 
Onate  and  his  men,  in  1594.  By  slow  degrees  the 
once  godly  order  shrank  and  grew  deformed  among 
the  brave  but  isolated  and  ingrown  people  of  that 
lonely  land  ;  until  the  monstrosity  of  the  present  fana- 
ticism had  devolved. 

6 


82  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

The  order  was  unquestionably  of  Franciscan  ori- 
gin. In  Spanish  letters-patent,  of  as  late  date  as 
1793,  we  find  it  referred  to  as  "  La  Cofradia  del 
tercer  orden  de  Franciscanos  "  —the  Brotherhood  of 
the  Third  Order  of  Franciscans. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  a  tribal  penance,  vicari- 
ously done,  has  been  a  custom  among  the  Pueblo 
Indians  from  time  immemorial,  and  is  still  observed. 
Twice  every  year,  in  each  of  the  nineteen  now-in- 
habited pueblos,  a  penitential  fast  of  four  days  is 
kept  by  allotted  parties.  In  Isleta  six  men  and  six 
women  are  selected  to  expiate  thus  the  sins  of  the 
whole  pueblo ;  and  in  some  pueblos  the  whole  adult 
population  fasts.  Where  a  small  number  bear  the 
sins  of  all,  they  are  shut  up  in  the  estufa  (sacred 
council-chamber)  with  a  tinaja  of  water  before  each  ; 
but  they  must  not  drink.  Every  morning,  a  delega- 
tion comes  to  wash  their  feet.  This  fast  continues 
four  days.  It  is  the  only  form  of  penance  known  to 
exist  among  them  now,  aside  from  what  is  imposed 
by  the  church. 

When  the  Spanish  conquistadores  first  entered  New 
Mexico  they  found  traces  of  a  similar  custom,  of  then 
great  antiquity.  All  the  tribes  had  their  tribal  pro- 
fessional penitents.  The  word  cacique,  so  widely 
misused,  means  nothing  else.  The  Tanos  Indians, 
whose  pueblos  then  occupied  the  country  about 
Galisteo — Sante  Fe's  present  site  being  also  included 
in  their  territory — were  called  by  a  name  based  on 
the  method  of  their  penance.  This  name  in  the 
Queres  tongue  was  Poo-ya-tye,  horn  poo-ya,  a  thorn. 
They  were  the  tribe  whose  caciques  did  penance  by 
pricking  themselves  with  the  thorns  of  the  cactus. 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  83 

Just  how  this  pricking  was  done,  is  not  known. 
Whether  it  was  by  lying  on  beds  of  thorns, 
and  lashing  prickly  burdens  to  the  body,  as  the 
Mexican  Penitentes  do  now,  or  whether  merely  by 
jabbing  the  individual  thorn  through  the  cuticle,  is 
still  a  mystery.  Bandelier  has  thus  far  discovered 
nothing  which  will  throw  more  explicit  light  on  this 
subject,  as  the  Tanos  are  now  extinct,  save  at  the 
Tehua  pueblo  of  Moqui. 

In  old  Mexico  there  is  nothing  to  be  compared 
with  the  Penitentes.  The  reign  of  the  Fariseos,  and 
the  Holy  Week  representation  of  the  Crucifixion  and 
Resurrection,  by  life-like  automatons,  belong  in  a 
widely  different  category. 

However  the  curious  devolution  was  accomplished, 
it  is  certain  that  for  over  a  century  there  has  been  in 
New  Mexico  an  order  of  Penitentes  whose  credo  was 
founded  upon  the  whip  and  the  cross  as  instruments 
of  penance.  Up  to  within  a  decade  the  order  in  this 
Territory  numbered  some  thousands,  with  fraternities 
in  towns  of  every  county.  Their  strongholds  were  in 
Taos,  Mora  and  Rio  Arriba  counties,  where  ten 
years  ago  they  numbered  respectively  500,  300  and 
1,000  members,  approximately.  Los  Griegos,  a 
hamlet  just  below  Albuquerque,  was  another  hot-bed 
of  them,  and  many  dwelt  in  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Sandia  Mountains  east  of  Albuquerque.  In  1867 
there  were  900  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles  from 
Taos.  Each  town  had  its  independent  fraternity, 
ruled  by  an  Hermano  Mayor  (chief  brother)  who  was 
elected  annually  by  his  fellows.  He  had  no  superior, 
and.  was  not  even  obliged  to  hold  counsel  with  the 
neighboring  hermanos  mayores.  In  scores  of  lonely 


84  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

canons  throughout  the  Territory,  the  traveler  may 
see  to  this  day  the  deserted,  low,  stone  houses  with 
huge  crosses  leaning  in  slow  decay  against  their  sides 
— tokens  of  the  bloody  rites  which  the  surrounding 
hills  once  witnessed.  The  order  was  too  strong  in 
earlier  days  to  be  excommunicated  at  one  fell  swoop ; 
and  the  Catholic  Church  —to  which  all  the  Penitentes 
claim  allegiance — went  at  the  work  with  prudent  de- 
liberation, lopping  off  a  head  here  and  a  head  there 
in  a  quiet  way,  which  carried  its  full  lesson  without 
provoking  rebellion.  The  policy  has  been  a  success- 
ful one  and  has  been  unflinchingly  maintained. 
Town  after  town  has  dropped  its  Holy  Week  cele- 
brations, fraternity  after  fraternity  has  melted  away 
/5  )  to  nothingness.  In  the  year  1888  but  three  towns  in 
the  Territory  had  Penitente  processions  ;  and  but  one 
— San  Mateo,  in  the  western  end  of  Valencia  County 
— enjoyed  a  crucifixion. 

Lent  is  the  sole  season  of  Penitente  activity.  The 
rest  of  the  year  their  religion  is  allowed  to  lapse  in 
desuetude  more  or  less  innocuous,  and  the  brethren 
placidly  follow  their  various  vocations  as  laborers, 
cowboys,  or  shepherds.  With  the  beginning  of  the 
sacred  forty  days,  however,  they  enter  upon  the  con- 
venient task  of  achieving  their  piety  for  the  year. 
Every  Friday  night  in  Lent  the  belated  wayfarer 
among  the  interior  ranges  is  liable  to  be  startled  by 
the  hideous  too-ootle-te-too  of  an  unearthly  whistle 
which  wails  over  and  over  its  refrain. 

As  the  midnight  wind  sweeps  that  weird  strain 
down  the  lonely  canon,  it  seems  the  wail  of  a  lost 
spirit.  I  have  known  men  of  tried  bravery  to.  flee 
from  that  sound  when  they  heard  it  for  the  first  time. 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  85 

A  simple  air  on  a  fife  made  of  the  cariso  seems  a 
mild  matter  to  read  of;  but  its  wild  shriek,  which  can 
be  heard  for  miles,  carries  an  indescribable  terror 
with  it.  "  The  oldest  timer "  crosses  himself  and 
looks  askance  when  that  sound  floats  out  to  him  from 
the  mountain  gorges. 

If  the  hearer  have  the  courage  of  his  curiosity,  and 
will  explore  the  sound,  his  eyes  will  share  the  aston- 
ishment and  consternation  of  his  ears. 

It  is  well,  however,  to  cultivate  secretiveness. 
Woe  to  him  if  in  seeing  he  shall  be  seen  !  A  sharp- 
edged  knife  or  flint  shall  be  over-curious  of  his  back, 
and  across  its  bloody  autograph  a  hundred  fearful 
lashes  shall  lift  their  purpling  wales — in  barbarous 
hint  to  him  henceforth  to  keep  a  curb  between  the 
teeth  of  inquisitiveness. 

But  let  him  stalk  his  game,  and  with  safety  to  his 
own  hide  he  may  see  havoc  to  the  hides  of  others.  In 
advance  a  tall,  athletic  pitero,  torturing  that  unearthly 
unmelody  from  his  rude  reed  pito,  and  recognizable  as 
one  of  the  leading  musicians  of  the  neighborhood.  A 
few  rods  behind,  two  other  natives  bearing  lanterns 
before  the  feet  of  the  astounding  figure  which  follows 
them — a  head  loosely  but  securely  wrapped  in  a  black 
bag  like  a  hangman's  cap  ;  a  body  naked  to  the  waist, 
and  clothed  below  with  not  more  than  a  pair  of  flap- 
ping linen  drawers,  now  wet  with  red  ;  bare  feet  pur- 
ple with  the  savage  cold  of  a  New  Mexican  March, 
yet  not  too  frozen  to  bleed  responsive  to  the  atten- 
tions of  the  frozen  rocks  ;  and  arms  which  swing  me- 
chanically up  and  back  at  each  step,  and  bring  a 
broad,  plaited  whip  down  upon  the  macerated  back 
with  a  heavy  swash.  A  few  rods  more  to  the  rear 


86  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

comes  another  man,  in  the  same  fantastic  undress,  but 
without  the  whip.  He  staggers  under  an  enormous 
cross,  its  rear  end  crunching  on  the  rocks  and  snow 
twenty  feet  behind,  its  weight  five  times  that  of  its 
bearer.  And  slowly,  painfully,  with  bleeding  backs  and 
feet  and  freezing  bodies,  the  self-made  martyrs  with 
their  solemn  attendants  file  past  the  trembling  watcher 
and  disappear  among  the  querulous  pines,  through 
whose  arches  the  tootle  of  the  fife  floats  fitfully  back. 

Each  Friday  night  of  Lent  these  strange  spectres 
flit  through  the  loneliest  mountain  gorges,  until  Holy 
Week ;  and  then  the  whipping  goes  on  nightly — but 
still  in  privacy.  It  is  not  until  Holy  Thursday  that 
the  scattered  knots  of  fanatics  come  together  in  some 
spot  where  they  have  a  morada  (brotherhood  house), 
and  do  their  penance  by  daylight  where  the  curious 
may  see  without  danger  to  life  or  limb. 

The  hamlet  of  San  Mateo — a  straggling  procession 
of  brown  adobes  at  the  very  foot  of  the  mesa  founda- 
tion of  Mount  Taylor,  at  an  altitude  of  nearly  eight 
thousand  feet — contains  four  hundred  people.  It  is 
perhaps  the  most  unreclaimed  Mexican  village  in  New 
Mexico.  Not  half  a  dozen  of  its  people  speak  the 
language  of  the  United  States.  In  1887  a  witch  was 
stoned  to  death  there,  who  had  played  the  cynical 
trick  of  turning  an  estimable  citizen  into  a  woman  for 
the  space  of  three  months  !  Numerous  other  inhabi- 
tants have  suffered — though  none  else  so  severely — at 
the  hands  of  witches  ;  and  several  in  the  town  have 
seen  and  held  converse  with  his  Satanic  Majesty  ! 
Little  wonder,  then,  that  the  dwindling  Penitentes 
have  still  kept  a  foothold  there,  or  that  the  population 
is  in  awed  and  active  sympathy  with  their  brutalities. 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  87 

Half  a  mile  along  the  crazy  road  which  wanders  up 
into  the  canon,  whose  clear  rivulet  is  the  life  of  the 
people,  stands  the  rude  little  log-built  mill,  its  big, 
overshot  wheel  taking  impulse  from  a  monster  spout 
of  pine;  its  grumbling  stones  chewing  the  plump 
wheat  into  a  brown,  nutritious  flour ;  its  madonna- 
faced  mistress  divided  between  the  falling  grist  and  her 
toddling  babe.  Across  the  road  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  distant,  backed  up  against  a  rocky  bluff,  the 
morada  s  gloomy  walls  glower  down  upon  the  pretty 
scene.  It  is  a  low,  rude  hut  of  stone,  some  forty  by 
twenty  feet  in  exterior  dimensions,  with  one  door, 
two  small  windows,  and  two  rooms  divided  by  a  nar- 
row hallway.  The  rough  walls  are  unchinked,  the 
floor  is  of  earth.  There  are  neither  chairs,  benches, 
tables,  nor  beds ;  nothing  but  two  of  the  quaint  New 
Mexico  corner  fireplaces,  and  a  few  pegs  in  the  wall, 
from  which  depend  the  whips,  stained  and  stiff  with 
dry  blood.  Against  the  outer  walls  lean  four  rude 
crosses.  The  largest  is  twenty  feet  long,  and  weighs 
close  upon  eight  hundred  pounds  ;  the  smallest  two 
hundred.  A  few  hundred  yards  down  the  canon,  a 
sugar-loaf  hillock,  known  as  El  Calvario,  elbows  the 
road.  Upon  its  top  stands  another  large  cross — the 
scene  of  former  crucifixions. 

I  had  been  watching  feverishly  for  Holy  Week  to 
come.  No  photographer  had  ever  caught  the  Peni- 
tentes  with  his  sun-lasso,*  and  I  was  assured  of  death 
in  various  unattractive  forms  at  the  first  hint  of  an  at- 
tempt. But  when  the  ululation  of  the/z/0  filled  the 
ear  at  night,  enthusiasm  crowded  prudence  to  the 
wall.  The  village  air  grew  heavy  with  mysterious 

*  Nor  has  any  other  yet. 


' 

;!TY 


88  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

whisperings  and  solemn  expectancy.  Whatever  they 
talked  about,  the  people  were  evidently  thinking  of 
nothing  else.  I  wandered  through  fields  and  arroyos 
at  all  hours  of  night,  trying  to  trail  that  mysterious 
whistle  whose  echoes  seemed  to  come  from  all  points 
of  the  compass  ;  but  in  vain.  My  utmost  reward  was 
a  glimpse  of  three  ghostly  figures  just  disappearing 
inside  Juanito's  house  on  the  hill. 

But  at  last  March  2Qth  came  around,  and  with  it 
Holy  Thursday.  At  nine  A.M.  the  shrilling  of  the 
pito  close  at  hand  called  us  out  of  the  house  in  haste  ; 
but  already  the  three  responsible  Penitentes  had  van- 
ished in  the  tall  chaparral.  We  greased  the  rattling 
buckboard,  and  hurried  over  to  the  village.  Every 
one  was  out,  but  they  were  no  longer  the  friendly 
paisanos  we  had  known.  The  sight  of  the  camera- 
box  and  tripod  provoked  ominous  scowls  and  mutter- 
ings  on  every  hand.  Nine-tenths  of  the  population 
were  clustered  in  close,  listless  groups  along  a  little 
wart  of  houses  upon  a  hill  which  overhangs  the  campo 
santo  (burying-ground),  at  the  upper  end  of  town. 
Squatting  with  backs  against  the  'dobe  walls,  the  men 
rolled  cigarettes  from  corn-husks  or  brown  paper, 
and  talked  intermittently.  The  women  nursed  their 
babes  unconstrainedly,  and  rolled  brown-paper  or 
corn-husk  cigarettes.  I  stowed  the  obnoxious  instru- 
ment inside  a  friendly  house,  and  waited.  Waiting 
seems  natural  in  a  Mexican  town.  The  minutes  loafed 
into  hours ;  and  still  the  talking,  the  nursing,  the 
smoking  went  on.  Nobody  thought  of  moving. 

It  was  two  P.M.  when  a  stir  in  the  crowd  on  the 
hill-top  told  us  that  it  was  coming  at  last ;  and  the 
camera  was  straightway  planted  behind  the  adobe 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  91 

ramparts  of  the  door-yard.  In  five  minutes  more  a 
fifer  came  over  the  ridge,  followed  by  five  women 
singing  hymns  ;  and  behind  them  a  half-naked  figure 
with  bagged  head,  swinging  his  deliberate  whip, 
whose  swish,  thud!  swish,  thud!  we  could  hear 
plainly  two  hundred  yards  away,  punctuating  the 
weird  music.  In  measured  step  the  pilgrims  paced 
along  the  reeling  footpath,  and  disappeared  around  a 
spur  toward  the  morada.  Half  an  hour  later  the  fife 
again  asserted  itself  up  the  canon  ;  and  soon  reap- 
peared with  its  persecutor,  the  singing  women  and 
the  lone  self-torturer.  As  he  passed  on  to  the  grave- 
yard, we  saw  that  little  red  rivulets  were  beginning 
to  stain  the  white  of  his  calzoncillos. 

I  hurried  to  the  hill-top,  to  get  near  enough  for  a 
"  shot ;  "  but  the  mob,  hitherto  only  scowling,  was 
now  openly  hostile,  and  I  would  have  fared  ill  but  for 
the  prompt  action  of  Don  Ireneo  Chaves,  whose  reck- 
less bravery — a  proverb  in  all  that  country  of  brave 
men — none  cared  to  provoke.  With  two  stanch, 
well-armed  friends,  he  held  back  the  evil-faced  mob, 
while  the  instantaneous  plates  were  being  snapped 
at  the  strange  scene  below. 

Suddenly  another  fifer  came  over  the  hill,  followed 
by  more  women,  and  seven  Penitentes.  Of  the  latter, 
four  were  whipping  themselves,  and  three  staggered 
under  crosses  of  crushing  weight.  Slowly  and  sol- 
emnly they  strode  down  the  slope  to  the  stone- walled 
graveyard,  filed  through  the  roofed  entrance,  whipped 
themselves  throughout  all  the  paths,  knelt  in  prayer 
at  each  grave,  kissed  the  foot  of  the  central  board 
cross,  and  filed  out  again.  These  services  lasted 
twenty  minutes.  The  foremost  cross-carrier,  after 


92  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

leaving  the  graveyard  a  few  rods  behind,  fell  face 
down  under  his  fearful  load,  and  lay  there  with  the 
great  cross-arm  resting  upon  his  neck.  One  of  the 
Hermanos  de  Luz  ("  Brothers  of  Light,"  who  do  not 
castigate  themselves,  but  act  as  attendants  upon  those 
who  do)  took  a  whip  and  gave  him  fifty  resounding 
blows  on  the  bare  back.  Then  two  ayudantes  lifted 
him  to  his  feet,  laid  the  great  timbers  upon  his  neck, 
and  steadied  the  ends  as  he  tottered  onward.  Once 
he  was  about  to  sink  again,  but  they  revived  him  with 
emphatic  kicks.  So  the  ghastly  procession  crept 
thrice  from  morada  to  campo  santo  and  back. 

At  seven  o'clock  that  night  the  fanatic  band  came 
marching  down  to  the  hospitable  house  of  Colonel 
Manuel  Chaves,  the  most  extraordinary  Indian  fighter 
New  Mexico  ever  produced.  A  little  family  chapel 
stands  a  few  rods  from  the  house,  behind  two  sturdy 
oaks,  in  whose  never-forgotten  shade  Colonel  Chaves 
rested  one  awful  day  fifty-eight  years  ago,  when, 
sieved  by  seven  Navajo  arrows,  he  was  crawling  his 
bloody  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  homeward  to 
Cebolleta.  Hither  the  procession  turned.  There 
were  now  five  Hermanos  Disciplinantes,  but  only  one 
of  them  was  using  his  whip — a  short,  youthful-seem- 
ing fellow  of  beautiful  muscular  development.  Kneel- 
ing in  turn  and  kissing  the  rude  cross  that  leaned 
against  one  of  the  trees,  each  one  waddled  on  his 
knees  into  the  chapel  and  up  to  the  altar,  where  all 
remained  kneeling.  Back  of  them  were  two-score 
women  on  their  knees,  while  a  dozen  men  stood  rev- 
erently along  the  wall.  The  Hermano  Mayor,  Jose 
Salazar — a  small,  amiable-looking  shrivel — raised  his 
cracked  voice  in  a  hymn  ;  and  the  audience  followed, 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  93 

in  the  nasal  drawl  so  dear  to  native  New  Mexican 
singers.  It  was  an  impressive  sight — the  little  adobe 
room,  whose  flaring  candles  struggled  vainly  with  the 
vagrant  shadows  ;  the  altar  bright  with  chromos  of 
the  saints,  a  plaster  image  of  the  Holy  Mother  dressed 
in  tulle  and  wreaths  of  paper  flowers ;  the  black- 
capped,  bare-backed  five  before  the  altar ;  and  the 
awe-struck  crowd  behind — as  they  sang  over  and 
over,  with  intense  feeling,  if  with  scant  harmony : 

"  LAS   COLUMNAS.* 

"  En  una  columna  atado 

Mallards  al  Key  del  Cielo, 
Herido  y  ensangrentado 
Y  arrastrado  por  el  suelo. 

"  En  agriesta  disciplina, 
Si  lo  quieres  aliviar, 
Llega,  alma,  a"  desagrabiar 
A  la  Paloma  Divina. 

"  Ay,  Jesus  !  Ay,  mi  dulce  duefio, 

Desagrabiar  te  queremos. 
Recibe,  poder  amoroso, 
Las  flores  de  este  misterio." 

THE    COLUMNS   (CROSSES). 

"Upon  a  column  bound 

Thou'lt  find  the  King  of  Heaven, 
Wounded  and  red  with  blood 
And  dragged  along  the  ground. 

In  bitter  discipline 

If  thou  would'st  ease  his  pain, 
Draw  nigh,  O  soul,  to  give 

Peace  to  the  dove  divine. 

Alas,  Jesus  !     Alas,  my  sweet  master, 

We  long  to  aid  Thee  ! 
Receive,  thou  loving  power, 

The  flowers  of  this  mystery." 
The  Spanish  is  lame. 


94  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

Then,  at  a  signal  from  the  Hermano  Mayor,  the 
penitent  five  fell  prone  upon  their  faces,  with  arms 
stretched  at  full  length  beyond  their  heads  ;  and  thus 
they  lay,  motionless  as  death,  for  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  while  the  singing,  with  its  fife  accompaniment, 
still  went  on. 

The  services  over,  the  Penitentes  filed  over  to  the 
house  for  supper — which  dare  not  be  refused  them, 
even  in  that  cultivated  family.  The  Hermanos  de 
Luz  had  already  effectually  blinded  the  windows  ; 
and  the  five  active  members,  filing  into  the  room, 
locked  the  door  and  plugged  the  keyhole  before  they 
dared  remove  their  head-masks  to  eat.  This  care  to 
keep  their  identity  secret  is  observed  out  of  a  fear  for 
the  Church.  Still,  the  sympathizing  villagers  know 
pretty  surely  who  each  one  is. 

No  one  was  allowed  in  the  dining-room  save  the 
five  self-whippers  ;  and  now  came  my  golden  op- 
portunity. Metaphorically  collaring  the  Hermano 
Mayor,  the  Hermanos  de  Luz,  and  the  pitero,  I 
dragged  them  to  my  room,  overwhelmed  them  with 
cigars  and  other  attentions,  showed  and  gave  them 
pictures  of  familiar  scenes — a  Mexican  finds  it  hard  to 
resist  a  picture — and  cultivated  their  good  graces  in 
all  conceivable  ways.  And  when  the  Brothers  of  the 
Whip  had  supped,  re-masked  themselves  and  emerged, 
the  Chief  Brother  and  the  Brothers  of  Light  were 
mine. 

On  the  morning  of  Good  Friday,  March  30,  I  was 
in  the  village  bright  and  early ;  and  so  was  every  one 
else  for  twenty  miles  around.  At  ten  o'clock  the 
Mexican  schoolmaster  and  another  prominent  citizen 
started  up  the  canon  with  me,  helping  to  "pack"  my 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  95 

impedimenta.  Coming  to  a  point  in  the  road  oppo- 
site the  morada,  they  sat  down,  refusing  to  go  near- 
er, and  I  had  to  carry  the  load  alone  to  a  hillock  a 
couple  of  hundred  feet  southeast  of  the  house,  where 
I  set  up  the  camera. 

Soon  the  procession  hove  in  sight,  coming  from 
town.  Ahead  strode  the  fifer,  proudly  fingering  his 
diabolical  instrument ;  then  came  two  hermanos  with 
crosses,  and  another  whipping  himself,  with  half  a 
dozen  Hermanos  de  Luz  attending  them  ;  then  shriv- 
eled old  Jesus  Mirabal  reading  prayers  aloud  ;  and 
behind  him  fifty-one  women  and  children,  falling  down 
on  their  knees  in  the  dust-deep  road  at  every  fifty  feet 
or  so  to  pray,  and  singing  hymns  as  they  walked  be- 
tween prayers.  They  bore  a  large  crucifix  with  the 
figure  of  the  Redeemer — strange  to  say,  dressed  in  a 
linen  gown — a  plaster  image  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and 
numerous  framed  chromos  of  the  saints.  Tallest 
among  the  women  was  the  Mexican  wife  of  the  Pres- 
byterian missionary  then  stationed  at  San  Mateo — a 
cynical  commentary  on  our  mission  work. 

Reaching  the  morada  in  their  deliberate  march,  the 
Penitentes  laid  down  their  crosses  and  went  inside ; 
the  women  knelt  on  the  ground  before  the  door  and 
kept  up  their  singing  and  praying,  while  the  Brothers 
of  Light  strode  here  and  there  with  airs  of  great  re- 
sponsibility. The  ill-faced  mob  gathered  about  me, 
with  unpromising  looks,  and  with  significant  lumps 
beneath  their  coats.  But  just  then  my  lonely  guard 
was  relieved  by  Juan  Baca,  one  of  the  Hermanos  de 
Luz,  who  came  over  from  the  morada  swelled  with 
importance,  and  whispered  most  gratifying  news. 
The  Hermano  Mayor  had  pondered  my  request. 


96  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

After  dinner  he  would  hold  the  procession  while  I 
made  a  picture  !  So  back  wrent  the  camera  into  its 
box,  which  Juan  carried  into  the  morada,  and  back 
fell  the  puzzled  mob.  Presently  the  procession  was 
renewed,  and  I  marched  beside  it  to  dinner. 

Now  there  were  three  Brothers  using  the  lash,  and 
two  carrying1  crosses ;  while  two  more  strode  uncon- 
cernedly along,  each  with  a  burro-load  of  entrana 
(buckhorn  cactus)  lashed  upon  his  naked  back.  The 
entrana  is  one  of  the  most  depraved  of  all  its  diabol- 
ical family.  Its  spines  are  long,  slenderer  and  sharper 
than  the  sharpest  needle,  yet  firm  enough  to  penetrate 
any  ordinary  boot.  Get  one  entrana  needle  into  the 
hide  of  a  steer,  and  the  maddened  animal  will  gallop 
bellowing  over  the  landscape  till  it  falls  from  exhaus- 
tion. Yet  these  two  fanatics  wore  huge  bundles  of 
it,  held  on  by  half-inch  hempen  ropes  drawn  so  tightly 
about  chest  and  arms  and  waist  that  they  cut  the  skin 
and  stopped  the  circulation  ;  each  must  have  had 
thousands  of  the  thorns  burrowing  into  his  flesh,  but 
he  gave  no  sign.  There  was  no  sham  about  it.  Don 
Ireneo  cut  a  big  entrana  antler  from  beside  the  road, 
and  threw  it  upon  one  of  them  as  he  passed.  The 
cruel  needles  pierced  his  shoulder  so  deeply  that  the 
heavy  branch  hung  there,  yet  he  never  winced  nor 
turned  his  head  !  At  the  foot  of  Calvary  the  proces- 
sion stopped,  while  the  two  men  with  crosses  pros- 
trated themselves  in  the  dust — the  crosses  being 
placed  upon  their  backs — and  lay  thus  for  ten  minutes, 
the  fife  and  the  singers  keeping  up  their  discord  the 
while.  Every  hour  of  the  day  these  pilgrimages  were 
made  between  the  campo  santo  and  the  morada — a 
full  third  of  a  mile  each  way. 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  97 

Shortly  before  two  o'clock  the  women  returned 
from  town,  "  making  the  stations,"  and  halted  in  front 
of  the  morada.  Juan  Baca  brought  forth  the  cam- 
era, and  the  Hermano  Mayor  marked  a  spot,  about 
one  hundred  feet  from  the  door,  where  I  might  stand. 
Then  he  called  the  Brothers  from  the  house  and 
formed  the  procession — the  cross-bearers  in  front, 
then  the  Brothers  of  the  Whip,  and  then  the  Brothers 
of  Light  and  the  women.  "  'Sta  bueno  ?  "  he  asked 
through  Juan ;  and  when  I  replied  that  it  was,  he 
gave  orders  that  no  man  should  stir  a  finger  until 
the  pictures  were  taken. 

This  ordeal  over,  the  Penitentes  retired  again  in- 
side the  morada  /  and  the  women  started  on  a  fresh 
pilgrimage. 

I  was  left  to  chat  a  moment  with  Manuel  Martin, 
one  of  the  Brothers  of  Light,  and  a  remarkable 
character.  He  is  now  said  to  be  over  one  hundred 
years  old,  but  is  active  as  a  cat.  He  has  a  nineteen- 
year-old  wife,  and  frequently  walks  twenty  miles  of  a 
morning  to  visit  his  father-in-law,  who  is  forty  years 
younger  than  he,  but  does  not  look  it.  Very  diminu- 
tive, Manuel  is  still  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  remark- 
ably strong.  They  relate  in  the  village  that  he  used 
to  kill  a  sheep  with  a  single  blow  of  his  fist — a  great 
feat  for  any  man.  When  Manuel  lived  at  Puerto  de 
Luna  he  was  a  shepherd,  and  used  to  vegetate  with 
his  flock  a  year  at  a  time,  on  wages  of  $15  per 
month.  At  the  end  of  the  year  he  would  return,  get 
his  money — and  spend  every  cent  of  it  in  giving  the 
whole  town  a  grand  ball  that  night ! 

"And  how  passes  the  time?"  I  asked  the  old 
man. 

7 


98  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

"  Vdlgame  Dios,  Senor"  he  answered;  "but  I  am 
not  well.  I  saw  a  strange  and  woful  sight  last  night. 
One  of  the  Brothers  lay  sick  in  the  morada,  and  I 
was  caring  for  him.  At  midnight  I  heard  the  whistle 
of  Brothers  coming  from  the  mountains,  and  went 
out.  I  knelt  at  meeting  them,  as  is  our  custom,  and 
when  I  looked  I  saw  that  their  feet  were  bared  of 
flesh — nothing  but  little  white  bones.  Then  I  looked 
up,  and  saw  only  two  skeletons,  whipping  themselves 
upon  the  naked  bones  of  their  backs — and  I  ran  away, 
crossing  myself.  Quizds  they  were  Brothers  who 
had  broken  their  vows  and  now  must  wander  without 
rest." 

Meantime  other  Hermanos  de  Luz,  including  Juan 
Baca  and  "  Cuate  "  —  the  cleverest  wrestler  in  the 
Territory,  despite  his  years — had  burrowed  out  a  deep 
hole  some  fifty  feet  in  front  of  the  morada,  and  laid 
the  largest  cross  with  its  foot  at  the  edge  of  the  hole. 
The  procession  of  women  had  returned,  and  stood 
solemnly  in  front  of  the  hundreds  of  spectators.  And 
now  the  Hermano  Mayor  went  into  the  morada  with 
two  of  his  assistants.  In  a  few  moments  they 
emerged  leading  the  allotted  victim,  a  stalwart  young- 
fellow  dressed  only  in  his  white  drawers  and  black 
head-bag.  As  we  learned  later,  it  was  Santiago 
Jaramillo — known  also  as  "  Santiago  Jeems  "  —the 
cook  at  the  house  of  Don  Roman  A.  Baca,  one  of  the 
sheep-kings  of  the  Territory.  In  his  right  side  was 
a  gaping  gash  four  inches  long,  from  which  the  blood 
ran  down  to  the  ground  in  a  steady  stream.  He 
walked  firmly  to  the  prostrate  cross,  however,  and 
laid  himself  at  full  length  upon  it.  A  long,  new,  half- 
inch  rope  was  brought,  and  the  Hermanos  de  Luz  be- 


THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS  99 

gan  to  lash  him  to  the  great  timbers,  placing  the  stiff 
hemp  around  his  arms,  trunk,  and  legs  in  three  or 
four  loops  each,  and  "  cinching  up  "  the  slack  as  un- 
gently  as  they  would  upon  a  pack-mule.  He  was 
sobbing  like  a  child,  "Ay!  Como  estoy  deshonrado  ! 
Not  with  a  rope  !  Not  with  a  rope  !  Nail  me  !  Nail 
me  !  "  But  the  Hermano  Mayor  was  obdurate.  Al- 
ways before,  up  to  this  very  year,  the  victim  had  been 
nailed  to  the  cross  by  great  spikes  through  hands  and 
feet,  and  the  death  of  a  Penitente  during  the  crucifix- 
ion was  by  no  means  rare.  But  the  new  Hermano 
Mayor,  a  more  intelligent  and  humane  man  than  his 
predecessors,  and  also  perchance  with  more  of  the 
fear  of  the  church  before  his  eyes,  drew  the  line  at 
nails,  despite  the  appeals  of  the  victim  not  to  be  dis- 
honored by  a  lighter  agony. 

He  fared  badly  enough,  as  it  was.  The  stiff  rope 
sank  deep  into  his  flesh  and  prohibited  the  throbbing 
blood.  In  less  than  three  minutes  his  arms  and  legs 
were  black  as  a  Hottentot's.  A  clean  white  sheet 
was  now  wound  about  him  from  head  to  foot  and  tied 
there,  leaving  exposed  only  his  purpling  arms  and 
muffled  head.  This  was  done,  so  one  of  the  attend- 
ants explained  to  me,  that  no  sharp-eyed  bystander 
might  recognize  him  by  scars  on  his  body.  Now  the 
rope  was  knotted  to  the  arms  of  the  cross,  so  that 
each  end  hung  free  and  about  thirty  feet  long.  Two 
stalwart  Brothers  of  Light  grasped  each  end  ;  four 
others  seized  the  cross  ;  and  heavily  they  lifted  it  so 
near  to  perpendicularity  that  the  lower  end  dropped 
into  the  four-foot  hole  with  an  ugly  chug  !  But  its  liv- 
ing burden  made  no  sign.  With  shovels  and  hands 
the  assistants  filled  in  the  hole  with  earth  and  rocks, 


100  THE   PENITENT  BROTHERS 

and  stamped  it  down,  while  a  stout  fellow  steadied 
each  guy-rope. 

A  large  rock  was  next  placed  five  feet  from  the  foot 
of  the  cross,  and  another  Penitente  in  cotton  drawers 
and  headbag  was  led  out,  with  a  huge  stack  of  cactus 
so  tightly  lashed  upon  his  back  that  he  could  not 
move  his  hands  at  all,  and  scarcely  his  legs.  He  lay 
down  with  his  feet  against  the  cross  and  his  head  pil- 
lowed upon  the  stone,  while  the  mass  of  entrana  kept 
his  back  sixteen  or  eighteen  inches  above  the  ground. 
Even  this  was  not  a  tight  enough  fit  to  suit  him,  and 
he  had  a  large  flat  stone  brought  and  crowded  under 
the  cactus,  so  as  to  press  it  still  more  cruelly  against 
his  back. 

Meantime,  in  gracious  response  to  my  request,  the 
Hermano  Mayor  had  paced  off  thirty  feet  from  the 
foot  of  the  cross,  that  I  might  come  nearer  and  get  a 
larger  picture.  And  there  we  stood  facing  each  other, 
the  crucified  and  I — the  one  playing  with  the  most 
wonderful  toy  of  modern  progress,  the  other  racked 
by  the  most  barbarous  device  of  twenty  centuries 
ago. 

For  thirty  -  one  minutes  by  the  watch  the  poor 
wretch  upon  the  cross  and  he  on  the  bed  of  thorns 
kept  their  places.  A  deathly  hush  was  upon  the 
crowd.  Even  the  unwilling  pito  was  still.  The 
millstream  spilt  its  music  upon  the  rough  old  wheel, 
now  locked  and  unresponsive.  The  fresh  breeze 
rustled  among  the  pinons  on  the  steep  mountain- 
side a  few  rods  away.  The  undimmed  afternoon 
sun  flooded  the  rugged  canon  with  strange  glory. 
Across  the  brook  a  chubby  prairie  dog,  statuesquesly 
perpendicular,  watched  the  ghastly  scene  and  barked 


•5    x 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  103 

his  creaking  disapprobation — the  only  animate  sound 
that  reached  the  ear.  Near  the  cross  stood  the  old 
Hermano  Mayor,  and  beside  him  Manuel,  Juan,  Phil- 
omeno,  "  Cuate,"  Victorio,  Melito.  Each  had  a  nar- 
row fillet  of  wild  rose  branches  bound  tightly  around 
his  skull.  Coming  nearer,  I  saw  that  the  claw-like 
thorns  were  forced  deep  into  the  skin,  and  that  little 
crimson  beads  stood  out  upon  each  forehead. 

At  last  the  Chief  Brother  spoke  a  quiet  word.  The 
assistants  scooped  out  the  dirt  from  the  hole,  lifted 
the  cross  from  its  earthen  socket,  and  laid  it  upon 
the  ground  again.  The  crucified  was  relieved  of  his 
lashings,  was  lifted  to  his  feet,  and  carried  to  the  mor- 
ada,  a  stout  paisano  under  each  shoulder,  while  his 
feet  made  feeble  feint  of  moving.  His  brother  victim 
was  similarly  taken  in  with  his  worse  than  Nessus- 
robe ;  and  the  procession  re-formed  for  its  awful  pil- 
grimages, which  were  kept  up  till  six  o'clock.  As 
we  walked  down  the  canon  beside  the  procession, 
forcibly  obliged  to  stop  every  time  it  halted  to  pray, 
I  had  leisure  to  study  the  peculiar  marching-step  of 
the  Penitentes. 

The  cross  bearers  stagger  as  best  they  may  under 
such  fearful  burdens,  but  the  whippers  have  a  strange 
step  from  which  they  never  vary.  Each  man  stands 
with  his  muffled  head  drooping  almost  upon  his  chest, 
his  left  hand  held  upon  his  right  nipple,  and  his  right 
hand  grasping  the  heavy  whip.  Shoving  his  right 
foot  slowly  forward  to  the  length  of  an  ordinary  step, 
he  plants  it  with  a  smart  slap,  at  the  same  time  swing- 
ing his  right  arm  upward  and  backward  so  that  the 
long,  broad  lash  strikes  upon  the  left  side  of  the  back 
at  "  the  small."  Thus  he  pauses  full  two  seconds, 


104  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

the  lash  resting  upon  the  raw  flesh  ;  then  shoves  his 
left  foot  forward,  while  bringing  his  whip  back  in 
front  of  him,  and  with  another  stamp  swishes  the 
whip  over  upon  the  right  side  of  his  back.  By  this 
time  of  day  their  drawers  were  wet  with  blood  behind 
to  the  very  ankles.  One  Hermano  de  Luz  carried  a 
tin-pail  containing  a  decoction  of  romero,  and  every 
two  or  three  minutes  dipped  the  ends  of  the  "  discip- 
linas  "  in  this,  to  give  them  an  additional  sting. 

The  whips  are  about  three  and  a  half  feet  long,  and 
weigh  about  two  pounds.  They  are  made  of  the 
tough  fibres  of  the  palmilla  ;  *  whose  saponaceous 
root  (the  familiar  amole)  serves  the  New  Mexican 
housewife  in  lieu  of  soap,  and  whose  rosettes  of  em- 
erald daggers  dot  these  arid  uplands.  The  handle  is 
braided  ;  and  the  lash,  a  couple  of  feet  long  and  three 
to  five  inches  across,  is  left  to  bristle  like  the  tail  of  a 
horse.  This  is  the  "  disciplina "  of  penance.  To 
punish  erring  members  they  have  the  "  disciplina  of 
castigation  "  —a  hideous  cat-o'-nine-tails  made  of  wire, 
with  the  ends  turned  up  claw-fashion,  so  that  every 
blow  ravishes  from  the  back  its  tiny  morsels  of  flesh. 

As  we  passed  Calvary  again,  a  new  horror  was 
added.  The  Hermano  Mayor  came  up  behind  each 
of  the  seven  self-torturers,  and  with  a  flint  knife 
gashed  their  backs  thrice  across  , and  then  Across- 
hatched  "  them  thrice  up  and  down.  They  were  no 
mere  scratches,  but  long,  bleeding  cuts.  This  is  the 
official  seal  of  the  order,  and  is  annually  renewed. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  the  procession  came 
down  again  from  the  morada,  this  time  marching  the 
length  of  the  town  to  hold  tinieblas  (dark  services) 

*  Yucca  baccata. 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  105 

in  the  little  chapel  next  to  the  house  of  Don  Lorenzo 
Sanchez.  The  Penitentes  went  inside  and  barred  the 
door  on  the  crowd.  There  were  no  lights  within,  and 
the  windows  were  carefully  shuttered.  All  that  came 
to  the  shivering  audience  outside  was  the  clanking  of 
chains  and  muffled  blows,  and  groans  and  shrieks. 
The  services— which  are  intended  to  represent  the 
arrival  of  the  soul  in  purgatory — lasted  an  hour. 
Then  the  Penitentes  emerged,  carrying  one  of  their 
number  in  a  blanket  held  by  the  corners.  We  learned 
afterward  that  he  had  hugged  a  stake  wrapped  with 
cactus  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  had  succumbed  to  this 
fresh  torture.  Around  him  plodded  seven  women, 
weeping  bitterly,  but  low.  Not  one  but  feared  it 
was  her  own  husband.  The  poor  wretch  lay  long 
at  death's  door,  but  finally  recovered. 

One  short,  stocky  fellow,  who  had  been  particularly 
zealous  in  his  blows  all  day,  and  who  had  lain  upon 
the  thorns  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  attracted  my  par- 
ticular attention  ;  and  walking  back  from  the  chapel 
to  the  plaza,  a  third  of  a  mile,  I  kept  at  his  side  and 
counted  the  blows  he  gave  himself — two  hundred  and 
fifty-one.  During  the  day  he  had  laid  on  over  two 
thousand  ;  and  heaven  only  knows  how  many  before  ; 
but  next  day  he  was  at  work  with  his  irrigating  hoe. 
He  is  a  young  man,  Antonito  Montano  by  name,  and 
not  easy  of  suppression.  A  mule  once  caved  in 
his  face,  and  a  soldier  in  a  drunken  quarrel  gave  him 
grounds  for  being  trepanned  ;  but  he  is  still  keen  to 
enjoy  such  tortures  as  the  most  brutal  prize-fighter 
never  dreamed  of. 

At  midnight  of  Good  Friday,  the  Penitentes  scat- 
tered from  the  morada  toward  their  homes — in  some 


106  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

cases  forty  miles  away — to  meet  no  more  in  a  relig- 
ious capacity  until  another  Lent.  By  their  incredible 
self-torture,  one  would  naturally  suppose  them  to  be 
the  most  God-fearing  and  devout  of  men,  but  this 
would  be  a  serious  error.  There  are  among  them 
good  but  deluded  men,  like  the  Hermano  Mayor, 
Salazar  and  Cuate  ;  but  many  of  them  are  of  the  low- 
est and  most  dangerous  class — petty  larcenists,  horse- 
thieves,  and  assassins,  who  by  their  devotion's  during 
Lent  think  to  expiate  the  sins  of  the  whole  year.  The 
brotherhood,  though  broken,  still  holds  the  balance 
of  political  power.  No  one  likes — and  few  dare — to 
offend  them ;  and  there  have  been  men  of  liberal  edu- 
cation who  have  joined  them  to  gain  political  influ- 
ence. In  fact  it  is  unquestionable  that  the  outlawed 
order  is  kept  alive  in  its  few  remote  strongholds  by 
the  connivance  of  wealthy  men,  who  find  it  convenient 
to  maintain  these  secret  bands  for  their  own  ends. 

On  the  night  of  October  17,  1888,  a  political 
meeting  was  held  in  the  morada  at  San  Mateo, 
at  the  call  of  a  prominent  young  man  there,  since 
an  embezzler  and  refugee  from  justice,  whose  edu- 
cation at  Georgetown  and  other  Eastern  universi- 
ties cost  his  fond  father  $36,000.  The  county  cam- 
paign was  very  close  ;  and  finding  that  he  was  losing 
ground,  the  young  man  called  upon  the  Penitentes  to 
assist  him.  He  was  at  that  meeting  initiated  into  the 
order,  and  received  its  seal — six  gashes  with  the  flint 
knife  over  each  kidney.  The  wife  of  this  young  poli- 
tician, by  the  way,  is  the  daughter  of  a  prominent 
Washington  official,  recently  deceased.  It  may  also 
be  added  that  a  Penitente  was  crucified  in  San  Mateo 
on  Good  Friday,  1889,  1890,  and  1891. 


THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS  107 

Until  recently  there  were  also  female  Penitentes ; 
and  up  to  1886  there  dwelt  in  San  Mateo  fully  ten 
women  who  whipped  their  bare  backs,  wore  cactus 
thorns  in  their  loose  shoes,  and  wound  their  legs 
with  ropes  and  wire  till  the  blood  stopped — practices 
which  still  obtain  among  the  men.  Other  common 
forms  of  penance  are  to  lie  down  before  the  church 
and  request  worshippers  to  walk  over  them  and  kick 
them  ;  or  to  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  along  a  path 
paved  with  cactus. 

The  Penitentes  have  a  manuscript  book  of  rules,  but 
it  is  impossible  for  an  outsider  to  get  hold  of  a  copy. 
Some  of  these  laws  are  well-known,  however.  One 
of  their  most  curious  customs  is  that  regarding  burial. 
When  a  brother  is  taken  sick,  he  is  removed  to  the 
morada  and  cared  for  by  a  member  appointed  by  the 
Hermano  Mayor,  no  one  else  being  permitted  to  see 
him.  If  he  dies,  the  Brothers  wrap  him  naked  in  a 
blanket  and  secretly  bury  him  at  i  A.M.,  feet  down  in 
a  deep  hole  in  some  secluded  spot.  His  clothes  are 
then  left  at  his  home — the  first  and  final  token  his 
family  has  of  his  decease,  and  perhaps  even  of  his 
sickness.  No  married  man,  by  the  way,  is  allowed 
to  join  the  order  without  the  consent  of  his  wife. 

Sins  against  the  property,  families,  or  lives  of  per- 
sons outside  the  order,  are  taken  no  cognizance  of 
whatever,  but  if  a  Penitente  injure  a  brother  in  any 
of  these  points,  his  punishment  is  severe.  The  laws 
of  the  land  are  not  acknowledged,  but  the  Hermano 
Mayor  sentences  the  offender  according  to  the  grav- 
ity of  his  crime,  to  be  scourged  with  the  terrific  wire 
whip,  to  be  buried  to  the  neck  all  night  in  a  gigantic 
olla  (water-jar)  or  to  be  interred  completely,  alive 


108  THE  PENITENT  BROTHERS 

and  forever.  I  was  informed  on  good  Friday  that 
Philomeno  had  been  buried  up  to  his  neck  all  the 
night  before  for  beating  his  wife.  For  betraying  the 
secrets  of  the  order,  the  standard  punishment  is  to  be 
buried  alive.  The  law  does  not  trouble  the  execu- 
tors of  these  extra-judicial  sentences.  The  Brothers 
merely  give  out  that  the  victim  has  left  the  country  ; 
and  they  have  taken  good  care  that  it  shall  be  im- 
possible to  prove  the  contrary. 

In  collecting  the  songs  and  dichos  of  the  native 
population  of  the  Territory,  I  have  come  across  one 
irreverent  verse  relating  to  the  Penitentes.  It  runs  : 

"  Penitcnte  pecador, 

Porque  te  andas  azotando  ? 
Por  una  vaca  que  robe 
Y  aqui  la  ando  disquitando." 

Which  is,  by  interpretation, 

Penitente  sinner, 

Why  do  you  go  whipping  yourself? 
"  For  a  cow  that  I  stole, 

And  here  I  go  paying  for  her." 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 


AFTER  the  Spring  medicine-making  has  set  the 
year  afoot  in  the  paths  of  safety  ;  and  five  hun- 
dred swart  spade-bearers  have  turned  a  sample  of  the 
Rio  Grande  down  the  "  mother-canal  "  whose  little 
daughter-ditches  shall  feed  the  parched  fields  ;  and 
they  who  will  not  come  out  and  dance  for  this  drink- 
giving  that  the  wheat  and  corn  may  spring,  have  been 
duly  ducked  for  their  contumacy,  then  is  it  that  my 
brown  friends  of  the  pueblo  of  Isleta  have  joy  of  their 
legs.  And  joy  shall  be  as  well  to  all  who  see  ;  for 
never  was  there  more  gallant  sight  than  the  running 
of  the  stark  and  sinewy  forty  when  they  chase  the 
elusive  chongo.* 

In  the  abstract,  the  Pueblo  is  far  from  the  supreme 
runner.  The  Apache  or  the  Mojave,  given  three 
days'  time,  could  fairly  circumnavigate  him.  But  as 
compared  with  anything  familiar  to  our  putative  ath- 
letics, he  is  peerless — naturally  enough,  for  he  has  not 
yet  degenerated  into  the  fulness  of  civilization.  Our 
record-breakers  would  be  record-broken  were  they 
entered  in  the  Nah-cui-e-wee  of  the  spring  in  Isleta. 

I  have  said  that  the  Indian  does  nothing  for  fun  ; 
nor  does  he  primarily.  But  he  has  achieved  the  pre- 
cious ability  to  squeeze  fun  from  duty.  He  even  runs 
for  God's  sake,  but  trusts  no  offence  will  be  taken  if 

*  The  Egyptian  queue  in  which  both  sexes  dress  their  hair. 


112       THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

he  shall  be  as  glad  therein  as  his  deity.  He  feels 
there  is  room  for  both.  The  coming  of  spring  brings 
a  host  of  sacred  ceremonials,  whereof  the  relay  foot- 
race is  not  most  potent  but  by  far  most  picturesque. 

The  races  always  begin  on  Easter  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  generally  last  four  Sundays.  They  are  in 
honor  of  the  Cacique,  the  vicar  of  Thoor-id-deh,  the 
Sun-Father ;  and  if  he  have  in  him  half  the  blood  of 
a  man,  those  twenty  hours  pay  him  for  all  the  self- 
abnegation  of  the  year. 

At  noon  of  Easter,  Desiderio  Jaramillo,  the  superb 
War-Captain,  is  afoot  in  the  uncertain  streets  of  the 
Pueblo,  pregonando  in  a  voice  that  Stentor's  self 
might  envy.  Seven  years  have  not  dulled  my  won- 
der at  the  sonorous  range  of  Pueblo  throats.  Slow, 
measured,  deep,  resonant,  his  voice  rolls  down  the 
breathless  air  in  glorious  baritone  : 

HAH-TAH  o'-wun  tod-hlahk 
mah-ee-kah  ! 

"  Now,  youths,  to  the  estufa  come  !  " 

To-day  is  the  day  of  the  smalls.  In  half  an  hour 
after  Desiderio  has  bombarded  the  town  with  those 
explosive  thunders  of  his  chest,  men  of  age  begin 
trudging  toward  the  low,  round  estufa,  leading  each 
his  smaller  copy.  By  one  o'clock  the  twilit  room  is 
crowded  with  old  men  and  ungrown  boys.  All  come 
who  wish — none  are  barred.  To  them  rises  the  Ca- 
cique in  benediction  ;  and  the  Captain  of  War  pro- 
claims that  now  is  the  time  when  the  pueblo  shall  try 
its  runners,  if  they  have  the  hearts  of  men,  and  teach 
the  youth  to  bear  their  course,  that  they  be  strong  if 
ever  shall  come  the  barbaros.  Then  he  names  two 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO      113 

old  men  present  as  captains  for  the  day,  and  they 
proceed  to  "  choose  sides  "  in  the  fashion  of  "  picking 
up  "  two  base-ball  nines.  "  I  choose  Quico,"  says  the 
first  grayhead.  "  And  I  Lelo,"  says  the  other.  And 
so  they  pick  alternately  until  all  the  lads  present  are 
arrayed  upon  one  side  or  the  other.  Then  are  marked 
those  of  the  first  side,  each  with  a  dab  ofyeso  on  his 
right  cheek ;  and  all  strip  off  their  moccasins  and  mus- 
lin trousers  and  gay  print  shirts,  and  stand  slender 
and  supple  in  no  more  than  the  modest  breech-clout. 

By  four  o'clock  the  plaza  has  usurped  the  town. 
Upon  the  wall  before  the  great,  gray  adobe  church— 
which  dates  from  before  1635 — is  perched  a  long  row 
of  the  expectant.  Upon  the  squat  roofs  which  wall 
the  three  other  sides  of  the  square,  is  the  rest  of  the 
population.  The  course  is  diagonally  across  the 
plaza  ;  and  the  two  goals,  one  hundred  and  sixty  yards 
apart,  are  marked  by  the  statuesque  elders  who  shall 
judge  the  race. 

And  now  a  hush  befalls  the  crowd.  From  the  tor- 
tuous little  alley  at  the  southwest  corner  of  the  plaza 
stalks  Desiderio,  swathed  in  a  priceless  blanket  of  the 
weavers  who  never  wash.  Behind  him,  with  pace  as 
stately,  strides  a  gracile  lad  of  twelve,  and  another, 
and  another,  until  a  procession  of  thirty  boys  in  single 
file,  tapering  downward  to  the  centre  and  then  up 
again,  and  brought  up  as  to  the  rear  by  a  man  with 
silver  locks,  is  marching  across  the  plaza.  The  oldest 
may  be  thirteen  ;  the  tiniest  is  not  to  exceed  five. 
But  their  hearts  are  the  hearts  of  strong  men. 

To  the  farther  goal  they  march,  and  wheel  and 
stand  for  a  brief  invocation.  Then  half  remain  there, 
and  the  rest  file  back  to  the  western  goal. 


114  THE   CHASE    OF   THE   CHONGO 

A  moment's  pause,  and  the  command  rings  out 
like  a  pistol  shot ;  and  with  the  word  two  of  them 
that  are  at  the  eastern  goal  leap  forward  like  twin  ar- 
rows from  a  single  bow.  They  are  the  largest  boys 
of  the  thirty.  One  is  of  the  Ee-too-in,  with  the  yeso 
print;  the  other  of  the  Ee-ah-too-in,  that  wear  no 
paint.  Like  two  fawns  they  spring  down  the  course, 
and  in  a  flash  of  lithe  brown  legs  they  are  at  the 
hither  goal,  and  their  two  next  mates,  a  painted  and 
an  unpainted,  are  springing  to  the  east.  Each  pair  is 
smaller  than  the  one  before  it,  till  five-year-old  Melito 
and  chubby  Juan,  a  year  his  senior,  are  legging  it 
with  unbound  hair  out-blown,  set  lips,  and  eyes  afire. 
What  strain  of  dimpled  legs,  what  play  of  baby- 
chests,  what  spread  of  young  nostrils  that  sniff  the 
breath  of  victory  ! 

The  Pueblo  foot-race  is  a  serial  athletic  in  many 
chapters.  From  goal  to  goal  is  not  a  race — it  is  not 
even,  strictly  speaking,  a  heat.  The  race  is  by  relays 
and  cumulative,  and  the  fortunes  of  the  two  sides  are 
as  a  bank-account  whereto  are  debited  and  credited 
the  loss  or  gain  of  the  successive  representatives  of 
each.  The  start  is  always  from  the  eastward  goal, 
and  by  one  runner  of  each  side.  If  they  reach  the 
western  goal  even,  the  second  pair  start  even  toward 
the  east.  Generally  one  is  a  little  ahead  ;  and  in  such 
case,  his  mate  starts  from  the  goal  the  instant  he 
reaches  it,  thus  preserving  for  his  side  the  gain 
made  by  its  first  man.  The  second  man  of  the  other 
side  cannot  start  out  till  his  man  comes  in.  In  other 
words,  the  result  is  like  that  of  a  straight-away  race 
of  forty  miles  or  so  between  two  men,  each  of  whom 
is  made  new  and  fresh  at  every  few  hundred  yards. 


THE  CHASE    OF  THE   CHONGO  II? 

The  race  of  the  babies  is  not  apt  to  last  long. 
Each  of  the  fifteen  of  each  side  runs  his  one  hundred 
and  sixty  yards  three  or  four  times  in  his  turn  ;  and 
at  last  one  is  plucked  from  behind  by  his  rival  be- 
tween goals,  and  the  race  is  over.  The  next  Sun- 
day's race,  similarly  announced,  is  between  two 
parties  of  grown  men,  similarly  chosen.  They  are 
generally  young ;  though  now  and  then  an  elder 
pants  his  course,  in  payment  of  some  votive  debt  to 
Those  Above  for  his  recovery  from  sickness.  There 
are  generally  in  these  races  but  eight  or  ten  men  on  a 
side  ;  so  the  running  is  apt  to  be  long  without  re- 
sult, since  each  man  has  to  run  oftener  and  has  less 
time  to  rest.  Frequently  a  race  is  not  finished  by 
sunset ;  in  which  case  it  goes  over  bodily  till  the  next 
Sunday,  when  the  gaining  side  will  start  in  ahead  by 
the  exact  number  of  feet  it  has  won  from  the  other. 

But  it  is  when  the  specific  races  of  the  Cacique 
have  been  run,  that  the  climax  comes.  By  now  the 
blood  of  old  and  young  is  warm  with  rivalry.  Four 
afternoons  they  have  watched  that  brave  and  gener- 
ous strife,  with  gathering  unrest,  till  now  their  spir- 
its can  be  appeased  only  by  running  themselves. 
No  sooner  is  the  chongo  of  the  unpainted  unfortu- 
nate begrappled,  than  friendly  taunt  and  challenge  are 
bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth  of  them  that  surge  tow- 
ard the  estufa  with  the  victorious  painted.  Before 
the  sacred  council-room  is  gained,  a  formal  deft  has 
passed.  The  unmarried  men  challenge  the  benedicts 
to  a  foot-race  on  the  coming  Sunday.*  This  looks 

*  Occasionally  the  challenge  is  from  those  whose  farms  are  across  the  river  to 
those  on  this  side ;  and,  more  rarely  yet,  the  parties  are  sometimes  made  up 
from  the  dwellers  on  either  side  of  an  imaginary  north  and  south  line  drawn 
through  the  middle  of  the  plaza. 


Il8       THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

more  like  pure  fun — but  still  the  ceremonial  heart  is 
in  it.  The  bet  is  a  scalp-dance  !  The  side  which 
loses  shall  pay  the  dance — that  is,  trudge  with  un- 
hasteful  burros  to  the  Manzanos,  twenty  miles  away, 
and  bring  back  wood  for  the  great  bonfire  without 
which  no  Tu-a-fu-ar  can  be  held.  The  challenge  is 
of  course  accepted — it  would  be  simply  impossible, 
under  Indian  etiquette,  to  be '"  stumped."  The  race 
will  be  exactly  like  its  predecessors,  "  only  more  so  ;  " 
and  because  this  most  superb  of  athletics  takes  cli- 
max with  its  last  race,  I  have  reserved  detailed  de- 
scription for  that. 

That  same  night,  after  sunset,  there  are  raliyings 
to  two  points.  Upon  a  broom-peak  of  the  gathered 
house-sweepings  of  five  hundred  years,  in  the  eastern 
part  of  the  pueblo,  cluster  Hloo-hlin,  the  "  Old  Men" 
or  married  ;  and  "  O-wun,"  the  single,  flock  to  a  similar 
mound  west  of  the  plaza.  Each  party  elects  a  cap- 
tain, and  he  carefully  picks  his  men.  Every  night 
through  the  week  the  rival  bands  meet,  each  at  its 
rendezvous,  and  chant  loudly  to  the  tap  of  the  raw- 
hide drum,  and  train  on  a  level  street.  As  practice 
goes  on,  and  lungs  broaden  and  legs  evict  their 
kinks,  spirits  bubble  over.  To-night  the  Casados 
come  parading  past  the  camp  of  the  Solteros,  headed 
by  the  vociferous  drum,  waving  a  gorgeous  banner 
and  singing  in  mighty  chorus  an  improvised  Tigua 
war-song  of  which  the  literal  translation  is  : 

"  Day  after  to-morrow 
How  strong  we  will  run  ! 
How  we  will  gain  on, 
How  we  will  chase  you, 
Catching  by  the  chongo, 
Tearing  off  the  breech-clout ! 


THE   CHASE   OF   THE   CHONGO  119 

All  of  the  meal-pay, 
All  of  the  flour-pay, 
Girls,  go  and  hide  it ! 
So  when  the  Solteros 
Lose  in  the  running. 
There  shall  be  nothing — 
Nothing  to  pay  them  !  " 

This,  with  the  appreciative  titter  of  buxom  married 
women  on  a  hundred  listening  housetops  is  ill  to  be 
borne  ;  but  the  young  bachelors  are  equal  to  the  oc- 
casion. Troubadours  are  no  rarity  here  ;  and  to-mor- 
row night  the  youths  take  banner  and  tombt  and 
march  past  the  rendezvous  of  the  married,  singing 
strongly : 

"  Ho  !  what  are  old  men  ? 
Good  to  hobble  burros  ! 
Good  for  burro-drivers! 
Good  for  drinking  vino  ! 
Crooked  are  their  chongos  / 
How  they  hug  the  fireplace  ! 
So  much  the  Hloo-hlin, 
Nothing  else  they're  good  for  !  " 

By  Sunday  noon  the  town  is  in  a  high  fever. 
Every  man,  woman,  and  child  of  it  has  espoused  a 
side  ;  everyone  brims  with  praises  of  his  or  her 
favorites.  There  is  like  to  be  such  running  as  was 
never  before  in  the  chief  home  of  the  Tiguas.  Any- 
where else  these  tense  nerves  would  mean  a  row  to 
come — anywhere  but  among  these  whose  nerves 
have  never  lost  their  elasticity  for  the  strain  of  civil- 
ized worry.  The  excitement  almost  over-topples  the 
conventions  ;  and  sweet-faced  maidens  smile  openly 
back  to  sinewy  youth  whose  glance  they  would  evade 
demurely  at  any  other  time.  Who  shall  not  run  his 


120      THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

fierce  utmost  for  such   beaming1  eyes,  the  heart  of  a 
man  is  not  in  him,  nor  yet  the  hurrying  blood. 

The  racers  are  in  the  estufa,  from  either  spar  of 
whose  lofty  ladder  flaunt  their  respective  banners. 
The  race-course  is  farther  down  the  same  indetermi- 
nate street.  I  have  never  been  allowed  to  measure  it, 
but  have  done  so  secretly.  It  is  exactly  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty  yards  from  goal  to  goal,  each 
marked  by  a  pole  set  in  the  hard  earth.  The  course 
has  been  swept  scrupulously  clean  of  every  loose 
particle  of  sand  and  gravel.  It  is  hard-pan,  sown 
with  round  pebbles  ;  a  sort  of  earthen  conglomerate. 
One  of  our  runners  would  fare  ill,  barefoot  upon  that 
hard  track.  Isleteno  feet  suffer  too,  but  that  is  part 
of  it.  To  be  stoic  and  to  toughen  by  pain — they  are 
of  the  aboriginal  curriculum. 

The  houses  that  hem  the  course  on  either  side  are 
a  double  rainbow.  Above  their  soft  gray  walls  the 
level  roofs  are  lost  in  a  gorgeous  human  drift.  It  is 
the  apotheosis  of  color.  Erect  men  tower  statue-like 
above  the  crowd  of  mothers  who  nurse  brown  babes, 
and  maidens  who  whisper  and  titter.  Upon  a  com- 
manding hillock  cluster  a  hundred  men ;  and  either 
side  of  the  street  of  running  is  six  deep  with  the  more 
feverish.  Upon  an  ancient  bench  beside  the  western 
goal  sit  the  Cacique  and  his  two  assistants  and  the 
principal  shamans,  rolling  cigarettes  in  the  sweet 
corn-husk  and  smoking  gravely.  Beside  either  goal 
stand  its  two  judges,  side  by  side,  erect,  tireless,  im- 
passive. 

Now  a  head  rises  from  the  trap-door  of  the  estufa, 
and  the  War-Captain  steps  out  upon  the  roof  and  de- 
scends the  old  steps  to  the  ground,  followed  by  the 


THE   CHASE    OF  THE   CHONGO 


121 


swart  athletes  in  single  file  ;  and  solemnly  they  march 
down  to  the  western  goal.  There  are  forty-four 
runners — twenty-two  to  a  side — the  unmarried  dis- 
tinguished by  the  dab  of  yeso  upon  the  cheek.  Desi- 


A    WATCH  KK    OF    THE    RACE. 


derio  heads  the  procession,  and  his  first  sub-captain 
brings  up  its  rear.  The  seated  dignitaries  have  risen 
and  taken  their  places  in  two  files  behind  the  umpires, 
facing  to  the  east.  Down  through  the  aisle  between 
them  stalks  the  procession,  while  the  shamans  blow 
each  from  his  left  palm  a  pinch  of  the  sacred  corn- 


322       THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

meal  in  invocation  to  Those  Above  ;  and  all  bow  their 
heads  while  the  Cacique  prays  the  prayer  of  the  run- 
ning. 

Then  the  whole  procession  strides  away  to  the 
east  goal,  and  the  officials  resume  their  seats.  There 
is  another  invocation,  and  there  half  the  runners  stay  ; 
and  presently  the  rest,  still  led  by  gallant  Desiderio, 
file  back  to  the  western  goal.  There  they  take  their 
places  in  two  single  files ;  the  eleven  Solteros  ranged 
behind  their  umpire,  the  eleven  married  men  behind 
theirs.  It  is  a  fine  array,  this  score  of  bronze  Apollos, 
stark  but  for  the  dark  blue  taparabo  at  the  loins, 
lithe,  muscular,  alert.  They  stand  in  the  order  in 
which  they  were  chosen.  Here  is  big,  homely  Quico, 
the  deer-footed ;  and  beside  him  as  rival  huge,  clum- 
sy but  tireless  Tranquilino.  Next  of  the  unmarried 
stands  that  bronze  cameo  Remigio,  the  absolute  per- 
fection of  a  man  ;  and  for  his  match  the  taller  Apollo, 
Jose  Diego  with  his  poet's  face.  Do  not  smile  at  the 
notion  of  a  poet's  profile  on  an  Indian.  If  you  or  I 
had  such  faces  as  Jose  Diego  or  princely  Pablo  yon- 
der, civilization  would  give  us  our  livelihood  for  the 
privilege  of  gazing,  as  it  does  now  to  men  less  en- 
dowed. An<3  here  is  little  Chino,  the  Black  Antelope 
who  runs  five  hours  at  the  heads  of  our  loping  horses 
in  the  great  round-hunt ;  and  here  that  chopo  *  Her- 
cules, Francisco,  the  strongest  man  of  the  Tiguas, 
and  matchless  in  breaking  bronco  horses  and  wild 
steers ;  and  here  Vicente,  the  tall  wrestler ;  and  a 
brave  array  besides. 

There  is  a  moment  when  none  take  breath  ;  the 
Capitan  thunders  a  call  to  the  farther  goal  ;  a  sonor- 

*A  short,  heavy-set  man. 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO       123 

ous  echo  gives  him  answer ;  and  from  afar  we  hear 
the  mighty  "  hai-koo  !  "  of  the  signal,  and  there  is  a 
flash  of  something  from  the  farther  goal.  Upon  this 
first  partura  many  a  pony  and  many  a  costly  blanket 
and  many  a  barrel  of  wine  will  change  hands  ;  for  it 
is  between  the  two  swiftest  of  all  Isleta's  eleven  hun- 
dred—one-eyed Quico  and  the  blonde  giant  Jose. 
The  calm  of  the  housetops  breaks  in  rainbow  waves 
of  excitement.  The  street  itself  surges ;  and  high 
above  its  kaleidoscopic  tide  come  streaming  the  op- 
posing banners,  borne  by  fleet  and  frantic  Chirina 
and  transformed  Pedro  as  they  fly  side  by  side  with 
their  favorites,  for  a  stretch,  to  cheer  them  on.  And 
how  the  shouts  go  up  ! 

"  Hai-koo-ee !  '  they  thunder  from  behind,  and 
"  Hai-bai ! ''  '/From  the  East!"  we  roar  as  they 
flash  on. 

"  Ah-qud-mi-dhm  !  Ah-qud  -  mi-  dhm  !  Harder  ! 
Harder !  "  yell  the  unmarried,  for  Quico  is  a  yard  to 
the  bad.  But  there  is  no  harder  in  him.  Flash  his 
one  eye  as  it  will,  and  wing  their  best  his  sinewy 
arms,  and  toil  their  mightiest  those  corded  legs,  they 
avail  not  against  that  terrible  apparition  that  hurtles 
in  front.  For  Jose  the  yellow-haired  is  at  his  prime 
to-day,  and  then  no  man  alive  can  beat  him  on  that 
course.  Four  feet  ahead  of  his  rival  he  leaps  past  the 
goal  in  a  fearful  bound,  and  sinks  upon  a  patch  of  soft 
sand,  that  those  heaving  lungs  shall  catch  up  with  the 
stampeded  heart. 

The  second  man  of  each  side  was  crouched  catlike 
at  the  goal  as  they  came ;  and  as  Jose  passed  the 
post  his  relief  leaped  forward  and  was  off  like  the 
wind.  An  instant  later,  in  came  Quico,  and  simulta- 


124      THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

neously  his  mate  sprang  to  pursue  Jose's  ;  and  the 
clamor  of  vibrant  shouts  went  up  again  to  heaven. 

For  three  hours  it  goes  thus,  without  apparent 
slacking  of  gait,  and  with  a  crescendo  of  enthusiasm. 
Each  man's  turn  comes  about  every  fifteen  minutes, 
so  each  has  a  chance  for  wind.  The  married  have 
gained  seventy-five  yards  in  a  dozen  parturas  /  but 
there  the  solteros  hold  them  ;  and  the  two  men  near 
each  goal  who  mark  the  point  where  man  meets  man 
(of  opposite  sides)  have  to  move  but  little.  But 
now  the  married  man  gains  a  rod  ;  and  the  inspira- 
tion feathers  anew  winged  feet  that  seemed  before  to 
run  all  that  man  can  run.  And  Lelo  robs  the  bache- 
lors of  another  yard ;  and  Chino  steals  two  ;  and 
Remigio  another  ;  and  the  crowd  sways  to  and  fro 
with  the  resistless  contagion  of  their  flight ;  and  old 
men  gird  up  their  loins  and  pant  beside  the  runners 
with  voices  that  crack  across  the  "  Ah-nyah-moo-ee  !  " 
and  the  "  Hoo-yoi-tin  !  '  And  wrinkled  mothers 
totter  parallel  with  sons  whose  teeth  are  grimly  set. 
And  plump  wives  and  comely  virgins  patter  in  modest 
trot  in  the  course  of  the  stern-faced  meteor  that 
flashes  past  unsmiling,  unturning,  but  noting  those 
dear  encouragements,  be  sure.  Even  the  staid  old 

c> 

Governor  and    his  two   lieutenants  are  running  and 
cheering  with  the  best. 

Upon  the  soft  sand-patches  at  either  goal  are 
sprawled  a  dozen  stark  forms,  twisting  for  rest  or 
lying  with  high  chests  heaving  from  that  terrific  strain. 
Old  men  pinch  and  squeeze  at  cramps  and  knotted 
legs.  A  gay  tinaja  stands  near,  with  a  gourd  dipper 
floating  in  its  neck  ;  but  no  one  drinks.  Each  runner 
takes  a  mouthful  and  holds  it  in  his  parched  mouth  a 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO      125 

moment,  and  then  blows  it — Chinese-laundry  fashion 
—upon  the  broad,  bare  back  of  a  companion  ;  or  puffs 
it  up  against  the  wind  and  whirls  to  catch  the  return- 
ing spray  upon  his  own  shoulders.  One  or  two  lean 
deathly  sick  against  a  wall.  But  they  will  be  ready 
to  step  to  the  scratch  when  their  turn  comes  around 
again. 

And  still  the  markers  are  kept  on  the  gallop,  draw- 
ing ever  nearer  to  each  other  in  mid-course.  And  now 
they  meet,  and  pass,  and  with  every  partura  each  is 
working  toward  the  other  goal.  And  now  in  a  roar  of 
joy  a  staring  runner  of  the  married  comes  to  the  goal 
while  yet  his  rival  is  starting  from  the  other.  The 
Casados  have  gained  a  whole  lap  !  They  are  no  longer 
common  racers,  but  now  inspired  beings.  Their  bodies 
seem  transfigured  by  a  superhuman  passion.  I  have 
seen  the  bravest  struggles  of  the  Superior  Race — its 
hottest  foot-ball  fights,  its  wildest  races.  I  have  heard 
more  noise,  for  the  aborigine  is  less  noisy  than  we ; 
and  seen  more  acrobatics  of  the  multitude.  But  never 
have  I  seen,  nor  do  I  look  to  see,  in  civilization,  such 
an  apocalypse  of  inspiration.  No  man  that  is  born  of 
woman  could  more  sit  still  against  that  wave  of  im- 
pulse than  he  could  out-weary  a  red-hot  stove.  Im- 
petus is  in  the  air,  and  all  goes  down  before  it.  For 
now  it  is  no  longer  a  race  but  a  pursuit.  From  goal 
to  goal  rings  the  cry  "Ak-skor!"  Catch!  Each 
bachelor  speeds  as  from  a  pack  of  wolves  ;  each  Ca- 
sado  springs  like  a  wolf  upon  his  trail.  Neither  could 
run  a  hair  the  better  if  his  life  hung  on  the  instant. 
They  leap  along  like  very  demons — as  man  was 
meant  to  run  when  there  is  to  run  for.  It  is  the  su- 
preme strain  of  perfect  muscle.  The  women  who 


126      THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

paddle  encouragingly  up  and  down  could  be  no  more 
wrought  up  did  the  pursuer  bear  a  knife  for  the  pur- 
sued. It  is  good,  now  that  single-heartedness  is  be- 
coming a  lost  art,  when  we  so  seldom  see  man  do 
absolutely  his  last-best,  to  look  upon  the  Homeric 
heroism  of  an  Isleta  hair-chase. 

The  distance  grows  smaller  between  each  relay, 
until  it  is  but  fifty  feet  as  Juan  gets  to  the  eastern 
goal  and  'Mingo  flashes  west.  And  now  comes  Pedro 
to  that  post,  and  Jose  springs  forward  in  pursuit  of 
'Mingo. 

I  would  fain  back  out,  even  now,  from  trying  to 
tell  that  untellable  last  dash.  But  even  as  I  pelt  im- 
potent words  at  that  whose  very  skin  they  seem  not 
to  graze,  the  race  is  with  me  again,  and  the  gray  faces 
of  the  runners,  and  the  devil's  tattoo  of  their  mad 
feet,  and  again  I  am  running  with  them.  Here  comes 
'Mingo  like  a  doe  with  the  pack  at  her  heels,  with 
head  back  and  ashen  lips,  and  brown  hide  that  seems 
taut  all  over,  and  the  eyes  of  one  that  sees  Death 
smite  him  unavenged.  But  behind,  like  a  tawny  elk 
in  rutting-time,  comes  charging  that  matchless  Fate— 
the  sublimest  human  thing  I  have  ever  seen.  That  six 
feet  of  mighty  and  faultless  frame  seems  alive  at  every 
pore.  The  flawless  skin  is  lighter  than  my  hands — for 
Jose  is  a  blond  Indian — and  knotted  with  great  gnarls 
of  strength.  The  yellow-brown  hair  flaunts  in  massy 
waves  behind.  The  large  eyes  fairly  burn  one  with 
their  unearthly  glow.  The  face  is  drawn  till  the  skin 
is  as  a  drum-head,  and  the  large  white  teeth  flash  from 
between  tense  lips.  I  trust  the  frontier  has  not  made 
me  unduly  timorous  ;  but  that  desperate  face  will  al- 
ways haunt  me.  It  even  now  and  then  sets  me  to 


THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO       127 

dreaming — a  lost  art  for  these  fifteen  years.  It  is  the 
incarnation  of  do  or  die,  literally,  and  now.  None 
who  sees  it  may  doubt  that  this  is  the  last  partura. 
Jose  will  catch-by-the-hair,  unless  the  world  ends  be- 
fore yonder  goal. 

'Mingo  is  ashen  as  the  gray  track,  but  with  every 
rod  desperation  seems  to  lend  new  wings.  But  they 
count  not  against  that  human  whirlwind  that  sweeps 
and  leaps  behind  in  terrific  menace,  devouring  the 
course,  defying  time.  'Mingo  can  hear  the  snort  of 
the  great  lungs,  the  pat  of  the  inevitable  feet;  and 
in  an  instant  more,  in  stone's-throw  of  safety  and  the 
farther  goal,  a  mighty  hand  clutches  him  by  the  fly- 
ing chongo — and  all  is  up. 

The  crowd  closes  in  upon  victors  and  vanquished  ; 
and  hoarse  throats  shout  again,  and  faces  are  aflame, 
and  here  and  there  are  tears  in  gentle  eyes  as  the  tide 
sweeps  on  to  the  estufa.  Into  its  cavernous  depths 
plunge  the  four-and-forty  runners,  and  rub  themselves 
and  don  the  garb  of  every  day.  The  unmarried  seek 
their  homes  by  the  shortest  cut ;  but  the  victorious 
Casados  with  drum  and  banner  make  circuit  of  the 
town,  singing  loudly  of  victory.  Jose,  the  victor- 
in-chief,  waves  aloft  his  spoils — the  banner  of  the 
Ovvun,  now  hung  upon  with  a  wreath  of  the  sacred 
gold-flower  that  flecks  the  gravel-bank  beside  the 
river.  For  all  those  hours  of  supreme  effort,  they 
still  have  legs  and  lungs  left  to  celebrate  their 
victory. 

While  they  are  yet  parading,  a  tall  and  stately 
woman  dressed  in  her  costliest,  rounds  a  corner  of  the 
plaza,  bearing  upon  her  head  a  flaring  Apache  basket 
covered  with  a  spotless  cloth.  She  is  the  wife  of 


128      THE  CHASE  OF  THE  CHONGO 

Jose.  Behind  her  come  his  mother  and  sisters  and  a 
hundred  and  twenty  other  women,  each  similarly 
head-laden.  In  single  file — and  there  are  few  more, 
charming  pictures  than  such  a  party  of  Pueblo  women 
in  holiday  attire — they  proceed  to  the  house  of  poor 
'Mingo,  whose  queue  was  pulled.  All  are  sorry  for 
the  loser  of  that  brave  strife.  There  is  no  reward 
for  the  winner,  save  glory  ;  but  to  him  who  was 
caught  goes  a  most  generous  consolation  -  prize. 
Since  he  is  a  Soltero,  every  married  woman  in  the 
town — and,  very  like,  many  a  sympathizing  maiden 
too — will  bring  him  the  Nak- hut-mi  of  flour  and 
meal  and  calico  and  sugar  and  meat  and  other  offer- 
ings, till  his  storeroom  shall  bulge  with  fatness. 
Often  this  consolation-pay  amounts  to  over  $100  in 
cash  value  ;  and  as  a  token  of  the  Acadian  spirit  of 
my  townsmen,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  I  have  heard 
the  whole  pueblo  congratulating  one  another  that  he 
who  was  caught-by-the-hair  was  a  poor  boy,  and  not 
one  of  the  ricos  to  whom  the  gifts  would  do  no  good. 
And,  furthermore,  it  is  noteworthy  that  this  consider- 
able temptation  never  yet  relaxed  a  poor  boy's  legs 
from  supreme  effort.  None  of  the  gifts  go  to  console 
the  others  of  his  side  ;  but  he  carries  to  the  Cacique 
the  first  basket — that  brought  by  the  chief  female 
representative  of  the  catcher. 

The  mental  balance  in  all  this  is  one  of  the  things 
which  breed  deep  respect  for  the  Pueblo  in  everyone 
who  knows  him.  No  crowd  of  ours  could  come  to 
such  fever  heat  without  bad  blood  somewhere  be- 
trayed. But  the  Pueblo  does  not  lose  his  feet,  no 
matter  how  his  head  shall  levitate.  He  can  differenti- 
ate between  the  race  and  the  runner,  even  in  his 


THE   CHASE   OF   THE   CHONGO 


129 


wildest  tension ;  and  his  excitement,  his  love  and 
hate  are  purely  impersonal.  He  has  no  faintest  sus- 
picion of  a  grudge  for  anyone.  I  shall  never  forget 
one  old  man  who  had  bet  his  all  and  was  simply 
frantic  with  excitement.  His  feelings  carried  him 
away  so  far  that  he  protruded  seriously  upon  the 


DFSIDERIO    ISI-RTA,    WAR    CAPTAIN    OF    ISLETA. 

track.  Stalwart  Desiderio  went  and  plucked  him  up 
and  bore  him  off  bodily  to  one  side;  and  there  the 
old  man  stood,  the  picture  of  woe,  still  crazy  with  the 
race,  but  never  forgetting  so  far  the  respect  due  to 

9 


130  THE  CHASE    OF   THE  CHONGO 

authority   as  to  intrude  more,  or  even  scowl.     And 
he  was  not  the  exception  but  the  unvarying  rule. 

The  giving  of  the  consolation  is  the  last  of  the 
races.  The  flushed  crowd  scatters  to  its  homes.  At 
eight  to-night  the  vanquished  will  set  torch  to  their 
huge  bonfire  in  the  plaza ;  and  the  Bending  Woman 
will  bring  out  from  their  hiding-place  in  the  estufa  the 
weathered  scalps  of  the  wars  of  long  ago  ;  and  around 
the  roaring  cedar  logs  will  dance  night-long  the 
great,  dark  ring  with  songs  of  how  they  smote  the 
prowling  barbaros  who  swooped  upon  Isleta  in  the 
danger  days  of  the  Olds. 


VI 
THE  WANDERINGS  OF  COCHITI 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  COCHITI 


OF  that  unique  racial  chess-playing  of  the  Pue- 
blos, whereof  the  board  was  half  the  size  of 
Europe  and  the  chessmen  were  stone  cities,  there  is 
one  foremost  example — the  Queres  pueblo  of  Cochiti. 
Other  towns  may  very  possibly  have  moved  more 
(and  we  know  of  several  movings  of  each  one)  ;  but 
of  it  we  have  the  clearest  and  fullest  itinerary — a  rec- 
ord of  eight  distinct  consecutive  moves,  beginning 
many  centuries  before  history,  and  ending  with  the 
Spanish  reconquest  in  1694.  In  that  time  the  Cochi- 
tenos  successively  occupied  the  most  commanding 
"  squares"  along  a  fifty-mile  line  of  one  of  the  most 
weirdly,  savagely  picturesque  checker-boards  in  all 
North  America,  and  one  of  the  least  guessed  by  Cau- 
casians. When  we  shall  have  become  a  little  less  a 
nation  of  mental  mistletoes,  American  tourists  and 
American  writers  and  artists  will  find,  in  the  wonder- 
ful wilderness  between  the  Puye  and  the  present 
Cochiti,  fascinations  for  eye  and  pen  and  brush  not 
inferior  to  those  of  the  superannuated  Mecca  abroad. 
If  we  could  but  have  had  Hawthorne  or  Ruskin 
among  those  noble  potreros  and  dizzy  gorges  !  How 
either  would  have  interpreted  the  gray  romance  of 
those  grim,  far  days  of  the  cave-house  and  the  town- 
moving  !  For,  with  all  the  nobility  of  the  landscape— 


134  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITJ 

which  is  entirely  characteristic,  and  in  its  kind  not 
surpassed  anywhere — its  strongest  appeal  is  to  the 
"  human  interest."  How  the  first  Americans  lived  and 
loved  and  toiled  and  watched  and  fought  and  endured 
here! 

The  Cochiti  upland  is  a  vast  and  singular  plateau 
in  the  centre  of  northern  New  Mexico,  some  fifty 
miles  west  of  Santa  Fe.  Its  average  altitude  is  over 
seven  thousand  feet ;  and  along  the  west  it  upheaves 
into  the  fine  Valles  range  of  eleven  thousand.  Be- 
tween these  peaks  and  the  Rio  Grande,  a  distance  of 
twenty  miles,  lies  the  plateau  proper — a  vast  bench, 
approximately  level  to  the  eye,  furred  with  forests, 
peculiarly  digitated  by  great  canons.  It  is  a  charac- 
teristically Southwestern  formation  ;  and  yet  it  is  dis- 
tinct from  anything  else  in  the  Southwest.  It  is  our 
only  country  of  potreros.  It  is  difficult  to  diagram  ; 
but  perhaps  the  best  idea  of  its  ground-plan  is  to  be 
had  by  laying  the  two  hands  side  by  side  upon  a  table, 
with  every  finger  spread  to  its  widest.  The  Rio 
Grande  flows  about  north  and  south  through  the  line 
of  the  knuckles,  in  a  gorge  over  two  thousand  feet 
deep.  The  spread  fingers  represent  the  canons  ;  the 
wedge-shaped  spaces  between  them  are  the  tall  po~ 
treros.  These  vast  tongues  of  volcanic  rock — some  of 
trap,  some  of  lava,  some  of  dazzling  pumice — a  dozen 
or  more  miles  long,  eight  to  ten  in  width  nearest  the 
mountains,  taper  to  a  point  at  the  river,  and  there 
break  off  in  columnar  cliffs  from  one  thousand  to 
twenty-five  hundred  feet  in  height.  From  the  river, 
the  western  side  of  its  dark  gorge  seems  guarded  by 
a  long,  bright  line  of  gigantic  pillars.  As  always, 
the  Spanish  nomenclature  was  aptly  descriptive. 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  135 

Among  the  noblest  of  these  cliff-pillars  are  the  beet- 
ling Chapero,  over  whose  dire  precipices  the  Cochi- 
terios  used  to  drive  their  game  in  the  great  communal 
round-hunts  ;  the  Potrero  del  Alamo,  a  terrific  wedge 
of  creamy  rock,  whose  cliffs  are  nearly  two  thousand 
feet  tall ;  and  the  wildly  beautiful  Potrero  de  las  Va- 
cas.  It  is  a  region  of  remarkable  scenic  surprises. 
Every  approach  is  of  enormous  roughness  ;  of  alter- 
nate descent  into  savage  chasms  and  toiling  up  pre- 
cipitous cumbres,  whose  crest  flings  a  sudden  and  in- 


I'HE  STONE  PUMAS  OF  THE  POTREKO  DE  LAS  VACAS. 


effable  vista  against  the  eye.  At  one's  feet,  and  far 
below,  is  the  Plan  del  Rio — the  yawning  gulf  of  the 
Rio  Grande — guarded  by  its  western  phalanx  of 
potrcros.  To  the  east  and  north  are  the  blackened 
leagues  of  the  Santa  Fe  plateau,  with  its  small  vol- 
canic cones,  over  which  peep  the  snow-peaks  of  the 
coccyx  of  the  Continent — the  ultimate  vetebrae  of  the 
Rockies.  To  the  southeast  the  jagged  peaks  of  the 
Ortiz  range  prick  the  sky,  and  the  horizon  hangs  on 
the  round  shoulders  of  the  giant  Sandia.  South  are 
the  dim  wraiths  of  the  Ladrones,  and  the  silver  beads 
of  the  river  amid  its  lower  fields  and  cotton-woods. 
The  west  is  lost  behind  the  dark  ranks  of  the  Valles 


136  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 

giants,  captained  by  the  lonely  pyramid  of  Abiquiu. 
It  is  a  wonderful  picture,  and  withal  an  awesome  one. 
Here  was  the  Coliseum  of  volcanic  gladiators.  Trap, 
basalt,  lava,  pumice,  scoriae — all  is  igneous.  And  this 
arson  of  a  landscape  has  a  startling  effect.  Superb 
as  is  the  scenery,  with  its  shadowy  abysses  and  sun- 
lit crags,  there  is  awe  in  those  black-burnt  wastes, 
those  spectral  rocks,  the  sombre  evergreen  of  those 
forests. 

From  the  side  canons  clear  brooklets  sing  down  to 
the  hoarse  and  muddy  river.  The  heights  purr  with 
dense  juniper  and  pinon  and  royal  pine  ;  the  canons 
whisper  with  cottonwoods  and  willows.  It  is  alone  as 
death.  In  nearly  four  thousand  square  miles  there  is 
not  a  human  being.  Where  once  were  the  little  corn- 
patches  and  the  tall  gray  houses  and  the  dimpled 
naked  babes  of  thousands  of  the  Acadians  of  the 
Southwest,  the  deer,  the  puma,  the  bear,  and  the  tur- 
key lord  it  again.  Even  the  Indians  seldom  visit  it, 
and  not  a  dozen  white  men  have  seen  its  wonders. 
Yet  it  contains  the  largest  village  of  artificial  caves  in 
the  world,  the  only  great  stone  "  idols  "  in  the  United 
States,  and  many  another  value — including  the  scene 
of  one  of  the  most  remarkable^  stormings  in  military 
history. 

When  the  Hero  Twins  had  led  forth  man  from  the 
inner  wombs  of  earth  to  light  through  Shi-p'a-pu,  the 
Black  Lake  of  Tears;  and  the  Winter- Wizards  had 
frozen  the  infinite  mud  so  that  there  could  be  going  ; 
and  the  First  Men  had  fallen  out  and  fallen  apart,  a 
wandering  band  of  the  Queres  halted  in  this  digitate 
wilderness.  Here  was  water,  here  was  timber.  Above 
all,  here  was  safety.  And  here  they  sat  down.  It 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 


137 


was  their  own  wilderness,  and  away  from  its  incom- 
parable area  they  have  never  since  cared  to  rove.  It 
is  identified  with  them — with  their  hopes  and  fears, 
their  loves  and  wars,  and  wanderings. 

Their  first  town  was  in  the  noble  canon  of  the  Tyii- 
on-yi,  now  also  known  as  the  Rito  de  los  Frijoles,  in 


?*pp^«4 

-    ««£%»     •*&*— 


vi  tr '  4       i "     "    •  -  '  '"'f^  T^GJ. 

^Jivl^llflf 

^v'^ii 


THE   TYU-ON-YI — CACIQUE'S    HOUSE. 

the  northern  part  of  this  plateau.  Here  the  Queres 
drew  a  prehistoric  diagram  which  would  have  saved 
a  vast  amount  of  foolish  theorizing,  if  science  had 
earlier  poked  its  nose  out-of-doors  in  pursuit  of  fact. 

The  fable  of  the  so-called  Cliff-builders  and  Cave- 
dwellers,  as  a  distinct  race  or  races,  has  been  abso- 
lutely exploded  in  science.  The  fact  is,  that  the  cliff- 
dwellers  and  the  cave-dwellers  of  the  Southwest  were 


138  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 

Pueblo  Indians,  pure  and  simple.  Even  a  careless 
eye  can  find  the  proof  in  every  corner  of  the  South- 
west. It  was  a  question  not  of  race,  but  of  physical 
geography.  The  Pueblo  cut  his  garment  according 
to  his  cloth,  and  whether  he  burrowed  his  house,  or 
built  it  of  mud-bricks  or  stone-bricks  or  cleft  stone, 
atop  a  cliff  or  in  caves  or  shelves  of  its  face,  depended 
simply  upon  his  town-site.  The  one  inflexible  rule 
was  security,  and  to  gain  that  he  took  the  "  shortest 
cut  "  offered  by  his  surroundings.  When  he  found 
himself — as  he  sometimes  did  in  his  volcanic  range- 
in  a  region  of  tufa  cliffs,  he  simply  whittled  out  his 
residence.  In  the  commoner  hard-rock  canons,  he 
built  stone  houses  in  whatever  safest  place.  In  the 
valleys,  he  made  and  laid  adobes.  He  sometimes 
even  dovetailed  all  these  varieties  of  architecture  in 
one  and  the  same  settlement. 

The  Tyu-on-yi,  the  first  known  home  of  Cochiti,  is 
one  of  the  unique  beauties  of  the  Southwest.  As  a 
canon,  it  is  but  five  or  six  miles  long,  and  at  the  wid- 
est a  quarter  of  a  mile  across.  Its  extreme  depth 
does  not  exceed  two  thousand  feet.  There  are  scores 
of  greater  canons  in  this  neglected  land  ;  but  there 
is  only  one  Tyu-on-yi.  At  the  Bocas,  where  it  enters 
the  gorge  of  the  Rio  Grande,  it  is  deepest,  narrow- 
est, grimmest.  A  few  hundred  yards  above  these 
savage  jaws  was  the  town-site.  A  ribbon  of  irrigably 
level  land  a  few  rods  wide,  threaded  by  a  sparkling 
rivulet,  hemmed  with  glistening  cliffs  of  white  pumice- 
stone  fifteen  hundred  feet  tall,  murmurous  with  stately 
pines  and  shivering  aspens,  shut  on  the  west  by  the 
long  slope  of  the  Jara,  on  the  east  by  the  pinching  of 
its  own  giant  walls — that  is  the  Tyu-on-yi.  That, 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  139 

but  more.  For  along  the  sheer  and  noble  northern 
cliff  crumble  the  bones  of  a  human  past— a  past  of 
heroism  and  suffering  and  romance.  In  the  foot  of 
that  stone  snow-bank  new  shadows  play  hide  and 
seek  in  strange  old  hollows,  that  were  not  gnawed  by 
wind  and  rain,  but  by  as  patient  man.  It  is  an  en- 
chanted valley.  The  spell  of  the  Southwest  is  upon 
it.  The  sun's  white  benediction,  the  hush  of  Nature's 
heart,  the  invisible  haunting  of  a  Once — that  utmost 
of  all  solitudes,  the  silence  that  was  life — they  wrap 
it  in  an  atmosphere  almost  unique.  It  is  an  impres- 
sion of  a  lifetime.  The  great  cave-villages  of  the 
Pu-ye  and  the  Shii-fin-ne,  in  their  white  castle-buttes 
thirty  miles  up  the  river,  are  not  to  be  compared  with 
it,  though  they  are  its  nearest  parallel  in  the  world. 
It  is  not  only  a  much  larger  village  than  either  of 
them,  but  with  a  beauty  and  charm  altogether  peer- 
less. 

It  was  a  large  town  for  the  prehistoric  United 
States — a  town  of  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand 
souls.  The  latter  figure  was  never  exceeded  by  any 
aboriginal  "city"  of  the  Southwest.  The  line  of  arti- 
ficial cave-rooms  is  a  couple  of  miles  long,  and  in  tiers 
of  one,  two,  and  three  stories.  With  their  "  knives  " 
of  chipped  volcanic  glass  for  sole  tools,  the  Cochi- 
tenos  builded  their  matchless  village.  First,  they 
hewed  in  the  face  of  the  cliff  their  inner  rooms. 
These  were  generally  rectangular,  about  six  by  eight, 
with  arched  roofs  ;  but  sometimes  large,  and  some- 
times circular.  Some  were  sole  houses  and  had  tiny 
outer  doorways  in  the  rock  and  as  tiny  ones  from 
room  to  room  within— a  plan  which  has  given  rise, 
in  ruins  oftener  seen  by  the  theorizer,  to  the  fable  of 


140  THE    WANDERINGS    OF   COCHITI 


THE    TYU-ON-YI — WALLED    CAVE-ROOMS. 

cliff-dwelling  pigmies.  The  builders,  in  fact,  were  of 
present  Pueblo  stature,  and  made  these  wee  doorways 
simply  for  security.  The  man  of  the  house  could  af- 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  141 

ford  time  to  enter  edgewise  on  hands  and  knees  ;  an 
enemy  could  not.  Some  rooms  combine  cave  and 
masonry,  having  an  artificial  outer  wall.  And  some, 
again,  were  merely  cave-storehouses  and  retreats 
back  of  a  stone-brick  house.  Outside,  against  the 
foot  of  the  cliffs,  is  the  chaos  of  fallen  masonry.  The 
builders  adopted  a  plan  peculiar  to  this  plateau.  With 
their  same  flakes  of  obsidian  they  sawed  the  tufa  into 
large  and  rather  regular  bricks,  and  of  these  exclu- 
sively laid  their  masonry  in  an  excellent  mortar  of 
adobe.  A  restoration  of  the  Tyu-on-yi  would  show  a 
long  line  of  three-story  terraced  houses  of  these  tufa- 
blocks  against  the  foot  of  that  weird  cliff;  the  rafters 
inserted  into  still  visible  mortises  in  its  face ;  without 
doors  or  windows  in  the  ground  floor,  and  abristle 
with  the  spar-like  ladders  by  which  the  upper  stories 
were  reached,  and,  back  through  their  rooms,  the 
caves.  None  of  the  outer  houses  are  now  standing — 
the  best  of  their  walls  are  but  four  or  five  feet  high— 
but  the  dim  procession  of  centuries  that  has  toppled 
them  to  ruin  has  dealt  kindlier  with  the  caves.  The 
caked  smoke  of  the  hearth  still  clings — half  fossil — on 
the  low-arched  roofs  and  around  the  tiny  window 
smoke-holes.  The  very  plastering  of  the  walls — for 
the  home  had  already  reached  such  painstaking  that 
even  the  smooth  rock  must  be  hidden  by  a  film  of 
cement — is  generally  intact.  The  little  niches,  where 
trinkets  were  laid,  are  there  ;  and  in  one  house  is 
even  the  stone  frame  of  the  prehistoric  handmill.  In 
several  places  are  cave-rooms  with  their  fronts  and 
partitions  of  tufa  masonry  still  entire  ;  and  one  lovely 
little  nook,  well  up  the  carton,  has  still  a  perfect  house 
unlike  any  other  prehistoric  building  in  America— 


142 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 


walled  cave,  wood-framed  door  and  windows,  and  all. 
In  this  climate  wood  is  almost  eternal.  Timbers  that 
have  been  fully  exposed  since  1670  in  the  "  Gran 
Quivira  "  have  not  even  lost  their  ornamental  carv- 


THE    TYU-ON-YI — SECOND-   AND    THIRD-    STORY    CAVES  ;    AND    MORTISES    FOR 
RAFTERS    OF    THE    OUTER    HOUSES. 

ings,  and  beams  of  vastly  greater  age  are  still  sound. 
Here  and  there  down  the  slope,  toward  the  brook,  are 
the  remains  of  the  circular  subterranean  estufas  where- 
in the  male  village  dwelt  ;  and  in  a  strangely  scalloped 
swell  of  the  cliff  is  still  the  house  of  the  Cacique — a 
very  fair  hemisphere  of  a  room,  cut  from  the  rock, 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  143 

with  a  floor  diameter  of  some  fifteen  feet.  Not  far 
away,  beside  the  rivulet,  are  the  ruins  of  a  huge  com- 
munal house — one  of  the  so-called  "  round  "  ruins. 
Exploration  always  shows  that  these  alleged  circles 
are  merely  irregular  polygons.  There  never  was  a 
round  pueblo;  though  the  estufas  were  very  gener- 
ally round  and  there  were  other  small  single  buildings 
of  the  same  shape.  The  usual  stone  artifects  are 
rarely  to  be  found  here,  for  roving  Navajos  have  as- 
siduously stripped  the  place  of  everything  of  aborig- 
inal use.  Only  now  and  then  a  rude  obsidian  knife, 
an  arrow-point,  or  a  battered  stone  axe  rewards  the 
relic-seeker — beyond  the  innumerable  fragments  of 
ancient  pottery. 

So  exceptionally  complete  are  the  links  in  a  story 
which  may  very  well  go  far  back  of  William  the  Con- 
queror, that  we  even  have  legendary  hints  of  the  sub- 
divisions of  this  immemorial  village  ;  and  in  a  cave- 
room  of  the  cluster  which  has  suffered  most  from 
the  erosion  of  the  cliff,  I  once  stumbled  upon  gentle 
Jose  Hilario  Montoya,  the  now  Governor  of  the  new 
Cochiti,  wrapped  in  his  blanket  and  in  reverie.  He 
had  stolen  away  from  us,  to  dream  an  hour  in  the 
specific  house  that  was  of  his  own  first  grandfathers. 

We  have  no  means  of  knowing  just  how  long  the 
strange  white  town  of  the  Rito  has  been  deserted, 
but  it  has  been  many,  many  centuries  ;  for  its  hunted 
people  built  successive  towns,  and  farmed  and  fought 
and  had  a  history  in  each  of  six  later  homes  before 
the  written  history  of  America  began.  Though  eter- 
nally harassed  by  the  Navajos,  the  Tyii-on-yi  held 
its  own,  we  are  told,  until  destroyed  by  its  own 
brethren.  The  conditions  of  life  there  (and  in  all 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF   COCH1TI 


prehistoric  pueblos)  and  the  interwarring  of  the  vari- 
ous tribes  are  drawn  with  photographic  accuracy  of 


JOSfi   HILARIO   MONTOYA,  GOVERNOR    PUEBLO   OF   COCHITI. 

detail  in  that  little-read  but  archaeologically  precious 
novel,  "  The  Delight-Makers." 

The  survivors  of  the  final  catastrophe  abandoned 
their  ruined  town  in  the  Rito,  and  moving  a  day's 
march  to  the  south,  established  themselves  upon  the 
table-top  of  the  great  Potrero  de  las  Vacas.  They 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  145 

.were  now  seven  or  eight  miles  west  of  the  chasm  of 
the  Rio  Grande,  and  on  the  summit  of  the  tongue- 
plateau  between  two  of  its  principal  side-canons. 
They  were  a  mile  from  water — the  sparkling  brooklet 
which  flows  past  the  Cueva  Pintada — and  therefore 
from  their  farms.  But  feeling  this  inconvenience  lit- 
tle so  long  as  it  gave  safety,  they  reared  among  the 
contorted  junipers  a  new  town — essentially  unlike  the 
quaint  combination-pueblo  of  the  Rito,  but  like  to  a 
more  common  pattern.  It  was  the  typical  rectangu- 
lar stone  box  of  continuous  houses,  all  facing  in. 
Here  on  the  grim  mesa,  amid  a  wilderness  of  appall- 
ing solitude,  they  worried  out  the  tufa  blocks,  and 
builded  their  fortress-city,  and  fended  off  the  prowl- 
ing Navajo,  and  fought  to  water  and  home  again, 
and  slept  with  an  arrow  on  the  string.  How  many 
generations  of  bronze  babies  frolicked  in  this  lap  of 
danger  ;  and  rose  to  arrowy  youth  that  loved  be- 
tween sieges ;  and  to  gray-heads  that  watched  and 
counselled  ;  and  to  still  clay  that  cuddled  to  the  long 
sleep  in  rooms  thenceforth  sealed  forever,  there  is  no 
reckoning — nor  when  was  the  red  foray,  whereof 
their  legends  tell,  of  an  unknown  tribe  which  finished 
the  town  of  the  Mesa  of  the  Cows.  But  when  the 
decimated  Queres  left  that  noble  site,  they  left,  beside 
their  fallen  home,  a  monument  of  surpassing  interest. 
The  Nahuatl  culture,  which  filled  Mexico  with  huge 
and  hideous  statues  chiselled  from  the  hardest  rock, 
was  never  paralleled  within  the  United  States  ;  for 
our  aborigines  had  no  metal  tools  whatever  until  after 
the  Conquest.  New  Mexican  work  in  stone  (aside 
from  the  making  of  implements  and  beads)  was  con- 
fined to  tiny  fetiches  which  were  rather  worn  than 

10 


146  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 

carved  to  shape,  and  to  a  few  larger  but  very  crude 
fetiches  of  softer  rock.  The  only  examples  of  life- 
size  carvings,  or  of  any  alto  relievo,  ever  found  in  the 
enormous  range  of  the  Pueblos,  are  the  four  astonish- 
ing figures  which  were,  and  are,  the  homotypes  of 
the  chase-gods  of  wandering  Cochiti. 

A  few  hundred  yards  up  the  dim  trail  which  leads 
from  the  ruined  town  of  the  Potrero  de  las  Vacas 
toward  the  near  peaks,  one  comes  suddenly  upon  a 
strange  aboriginal  Stonehenge.  Among  the  tattered 
pinons  and  sprawling  cedars  is  a  lonely  enclosure 
fenced  with  great  slabs  of  tufa  set  up  edgewise.  This 
enclosure,  which  is  about  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  has 
somewhat  of  the  shape  of  a  tadpole  ;  for  at  the  south- 
east end  its  oval  tapers  into  an  alley  five  feet  wide 
and  twenty  long,  similarly  walled.  In  the  midst  of 
this  unique  roofless  temple  of  the  Southwestern 
Druids  are  the  weathered  images  of  two  cougars, 
carved  in  high  relief  from  the  bedrock  of  the  mesa. 
The  figures  are  life-size  ;  and  even  the  erosion  of  so 
many  centuries  has  not  gnawed  them  out  of  recogni- 
tion. The  heads  are  nearly  indistinguishable,  and 
the  fore-shoulders  have  suffered ;  but  the  rest  of  the 
sculpture,  to  the  very  tips  of  the  outstretched  tails,  is 
perfectly  clear.  The  very  attitude  of  the  American 
lion  is  preserved — the  flat,  stealthy,  compact  crouch 
that  precedes  the  mortal  leap.  Artistically,  of  course, 
the  statues  are  crude  ;  but  zoologically,  they  bear  the 
usual  Indian  truthfulness.  As  to  their  transcendent 
archseologic  value  and  great  antiquity,  there  can  be  no 
question.  The  circumstantial  evidence  is  conclusive 
that  they  were  carved  by  the  Cochitenos  during  the 
life  of  the  town  of  the  Potrero  de  las  Vacas. 


_ 

THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 


~,  .    r 

The  cougar,  puma,  or  "  mountain-lion     — 

cha,  in  the  Queres  tongue — is  to  the  Pueblo  the  head 
of  animate  creation.  In  this  curious  mythology,  each 
of  the  six  like  groups  of  divinities,  "  the  Trues," 
which  dwell  respectively  at  the  six  cardinal  points, 
includes  a  group  of  deified  dumb  animals.  They  are 
Trues  also,  and  are  as  carefully  ranked  as  the  higher 
spirits,  or  even  more  definitely.  The  beasts  of  prey, 
of  course,  stand  highest ;  and  of  them,  and  of  all  ani- 
mals, the  puma  is  Ka-bey-de,  commander-in-chief. 
Under  him  there  are  minor  officials  ;  the  buffalo  is 
captain  of  the  ruminants  ;  the  eagle,  of  birds  ;  the 
crotalus,  of  reptiles.  There  are  even  several  other 
animal  gods  of  the  hunt — the  bear,  the  wolf,  the  coy- 
ote— but  he  is  easily  supreme.  The  hunter  carries 
a  tiny  stone  image  of  this  most  potent  patron,  and  in- 
vokes it  with  strange  incantations  at  every  turn  of  the 
chase.  But  it  was  reserved  for  the  Cochitenos  to 
invent  and  realize  a  life-size  fetich — therefore,  one 
nearer  the  actual  divinity  symbolized,  and  more 
powerful.  And  from  that  far,  forgotten  day  to  this 
incongruous  one,  the  stone  lions  of  Cochiti  have 
never  lost  their  potency.  Worshipped  continually  for 
longer  ages  than  Saxon  history  can  call  its  own,  they 
are  worshipped  still.  No  important  hunt  would  even 
now  be  undertaken  by  the  trustful  folk  of  Cochiti 
without  first  repairing  to  the  stone  pumas,  to  anoint 
their  stolid  heads  with  face-paint  and  the  sacred  meal, 
and  to  breathe  their  breath  of  power. 

But  now  the  town  of  the  lions  had  fallen,  and  a  sec- 
ond migration  was  imperative.  In  this  new  move  to 
checkmate  the  tireless  aggressor,  the  Cochitenos 
took  a  sort  of  "  knight's  leap."  They  dropped  fifteen 


148  THE    WANDERINGS   OF   COCHITI 

hundred  feet  from  the  mesa's  top  to  the  canon,  and 
thence  at  a  right  angle  three  miles  down  the  brook, 
namely,  to  the  Cueva  Pintada.     The  site  of  this,  their 
third  known  town,  which  they  called  Tse-ki-a-tan-yi, 
was  far  ahead  in  safety  and  in  picturesqueness  of  the 
second.     In  both  these  qualities  it  somewhat  recalls 
the  peerless  Rito.     The  canon  is  wider  and  not  so 
deep,  but  of  similar  formation,  and  similarly  wooded 
and    watered.     As  always,  the  wanderers   chose    its 
noblest   point.      There    the    northern    cliff  of    white 
pumice  is  five  hundred  feet  high,  and  in  its  face  is  a 
great  natural  cave  like  a  basin  set  on  edge,  fifty  feet 
above  the  ground.     Along  the  foot  of  this  fine  cliff 
they  hewed  out  their  cave-rooms  and  built  their  tufa 
masonry,  and  in  the  arch  of  the  great  natural  cave  it- 
self they  hollowed  other  chambers,  attainable  only  by 
dizzy  toeholes  in  the  sheer  rock.     The  Painted  Cave 
•  seems  to  have  had  some  of  the  uses  of  a  shrine,  and 
along  the  crescent  of  its  inner  wall  may  still  be  traced 
prehistoric    pictographs    (along   with    more    modern 
ones)  done  in  the  red  ochre  which  abounds  farther 
up  the  canon.     There  are  figures  of  the  Ko-sha-re, 
the  delight-makers,  and  of  the  sacred  snake  whose 
cult — once  universal   among   the    Pueblos — has  still 
such  astounding  survival  at  Moqui  ;  and  of  the  round, 
bright  house  of  the  Sun-Father  and  of  the  morning 
and  evening  stars,  and  many  other  precious  symbols. 
At  last  the  turn  of  Tse-ki-a-tan-yi  came  too,  and 
there  was  a  day  when  they  who  had  burrowed  in  its 
gray  cliffs  must  bid  it  farewell.     The  cause  of  this  mi- 
gration is  not  certain.     It   may  have   been   moral  or 
military ;    omen   of  divine   displeasure,   or  merely  an 
overdose  of  Navajo — for  the  whole  region  was  cease- 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITf  149 

lessly  harried  by  this  most  powerful  race  of  desert 
pirates.  At  all  events,  the  beset  Queres  had  finally 
to  abandon  their  third  town  and  seek  a  fourth.  This 
time  they  moved  south  a  short  march  and  built  Ra- 
tya,  whose  ruins  are  now  known  as  San  Miguel. 
Here  again  they  dwelt  and  suffered  and  made  history  ; 
and  from  here  again  they  were  at  last  compelled,  by 
supernatural  or  hostile  pressure,  to  move  on.  Their 
fifth  stone  town  they  built  in  the  Canada  de  Cochiti, 
twelve  miles  northwest  from  the  present  pueblo,  and 
named  it  Cua-pa.  There  was,  and  is,  a  lovely  thread 
of  a  valley,  just  widening  from  the  dark  jaws  of  the 
canon  which  splits  the  Potrero  Viejo  from  its  giant 
brother  to  the  north. 

Half-way  back  on  the  trail  to  the  Cueva,  atop  the 
almost  inaccessible  Potrero  de  los  Idolos,  Bandelier — 
who  was  also  the  discoverer  of  the  Rito,  the  Cueva 
Pintada,  and  the  Potrero  de  las  Vacas  with  its  won- 
derful images — found  two  other  stone  cougars.  They 
are  life-size,  but  of  different  design  from  those  of  the 
northern  potrero  ,*  less  weathered,  and  evidently  of 
later,  though  still  prehistoric,  origin.  They,  also, 
were  carved  in  high  relief  from  the  bedrock  with  ob- 
sidian knives;  they,  likewise,  faced  south  and  were 
surrounded  by  a  fence  of  tufa  slabs.  But  they  have 
not  been  as  undisturbed.  When  I  was  there,  I  had 
been  preceded  by  that  unknown  genius  against  whose 
invasion  no  shrine  is  sacred — the  vandal  whom  it  were 
libel  to  call  a  brute  and  flattery  to  dub  a  fool.  Find- 
ing these  gray  old  images  crouching  on  and  of  the 
monumental  rock — a  rock  larger  than  any  three 
buildings  in  America — his  meteoric  intellect  at  once 
conceived  that  there  must  be  treasure  under  them — 


150 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITf 


"  Montezuma's  treasure,"  of  course.  And  forthwith 
he  drilled  beside  them,  and  applied  giant  powder,  and 
blew  up  twenty  feet ;  and  then  gophered  a  tunnel  be- 
low. It  is  to  be  regretted  that  his  bones  were  not 


THK    CUKVA    1'INTADA. 


left  in  his  mine.  The  explosion  shattered  one  of  the 
lions  to  fragments  ;  but  the  other,  providentially,  was 
lifted  up  with  a  slab  of  its  base,  and  lies  uninjured  at 
one  side  of  the  hole.  Though  life-size,  it  is  not  so 
long  as  its  brethren  above  the  Cueva  Pintada,  since 
the  tail  is  curled  up  along  the  spine.  Nor  does  it 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI  151 

seem  to  have  been  quite  so  well  done — that  is,  it  is  a 
trifle  more  conventionalized.  But  it  is  equally  unmis- 
takable, not  merely  to  the  archaeologist,  but  even  to 
anyone  who  has  ever  seen  the  greatest  cat  of  the  West- 
ern Hemisphere.  There  has  been  a  proposition  by 
someone  to  cut  these  lions  free  from  the  mother-rock 
and  transport  them  to  Washington.  Of  course,  the 
fact  that  their  archseologic  value  would  be  gone  if 
they  were  thus  shorn  of  their  surroundings,  was  lost 
sight  of;  as  was  the  further  fact  that  they  are  the 
property  of  citizens  of  the  United  States.  The  Cochi- 
tenos  would  resist  the  removal  with  their  last  drop  of 
blood ;  and  in  such  a  cause  they  shall  not  be  without 
allies.  Plaster  models  would  give  all  that  science 
needs,  or  has  legal  or  moral  right  to  take. 

Driven  in  time  from  the  Canada,  as  they  had  been 
driven  from  four  previous  towns,  the  Queres  climbed 
the  seven-hundred-foot  cliffs  of  the  Potrero  Viejo, 
which  overhangs  the  Canada.  Here  was  their  sixth 
town — Ha-nut  Cochiti,  or  Cochiti  Above — and  their 
most  impregnable.  Nowhere  save  by  the  three  ver- 
tiginous trails  is  it  possible  to  scale  that  aerial  for- 
tress ;  and  we  may  presume  that  here  at  last  they 
were  able  to  defy  their  savage  neighbors.  With  time, 
however,  the  difficulties  of  farming  and  watering  at 
such  long  range  seem  to  have  induced  them  to  re- 
move to  the  banks  of  the  Rio  Grande,  just  where  it 
emerges  from  its  grewsome  gorge  to  the  widening 
vales  of  Pena  Blanca.  Here  they  raised  their  seventh 
pueblo,  this  time  largely  of  adobe  ;  and  here  they 
were  when  the  history  of  America  began.  There  is 
nothing  to  indicate  that  the  Cochiti  which  has  been 
known  now  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  years,  has 


152  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 

been  longer  occupied  than  was  any  one  of  the  six 
towns  which  preceded  it ;  though  of  course  the  pre- 
sumption is  that  it  has.  Here  the  Spanish  world- 
openers  found  the  town,  and  here  the  Cochitenos 
voluntarily  became  vassals  of  Spain  and  were  bap- 
tized into  the  church  of  the  new  God.  Here,  too, 
nearly  a  century  and  a  half  later,  they  helped  to 
brew  that  deadliest  insurrection  which  ever  broke  on 
United  States  soil ;  and  on  that  red  August  10,  1680, 
their  warriors  were  of  the  swarthy  avalanche  that  be- 
fell the  undreaming  Spaniards.  They  had  a  hand  in 
the  slaying  of  the  three  priests  of  their  parish,  who 
were  stationed  at  Santo  Domingo  ;  and  were  among 
the  leading  spirits  of  all  those  bloody  years  of  the 
Pueblo  rebellion.  The  only  fight  in  which  they  are 
known  to  have  figured  largely,  however,  was  at  the 
reconquest.  When  Diego  de  Vargas,  the  Recon- 
quistador,  came,  they  abandoned  Cochiti  and  went 
back  to  their  long-ruined  citadel  on  the  Potrero  Vi- 
ejo.  This  seventh  town-moving  did  not  save  them  ; 
for  in  the  spring  of  1694  Vargas  and  his  "  army  "  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  men  stormed  that  aboriginal 
Gibraltar.  In  the  desperate  but  short  assault  only 
twenty-one  Indians  were  slain.  Indeed,  the  decima- 
tion of  the  Cochitenos  was  due  not  at  all  to  the  Span- 
iards, but  to  their  one-sided  wars  with  the  Navajos 
and  with  other  Pueblos  ;  to  epidemics,  and  to  social 
centrifuge — for  the  legendary  hints  are  strong  that 
not  only  Cochiti  but  all  the  Queres  pueblos  origi- 
nated in  the  Tyu-on-yi.  If  this  be  true,  the  six  present 
Queres  pueblos  to  the  south  and  west  of  Cochiti, 
with  their  prehistoric  predecessors — for  each  had  its 
town-movings — were  doubtless  founded  by  early 


THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHIT2 


153 


rovers  from  the  Rito,  until  all  were  gone  from  the 
first  nest  save  the  later  wanderers  whom  we  have 
been  following. 

After  the   reconquest  the   Cochitenos    abandoned 


THE  OLDEST  OF  THE  QUERES. 


their  second  town  on  the  Potrero  Viejo,  and  moving 
for  the  eighth  time,  returned  to  their  present  pueblo, 
where  they  have  ever  since  remained.  It  is  seldom 


154  THE    WANDERINGS   OF  COCHITI 

that  any  of  them  visit  the  old  homes.  Only  when 
there  is  to  be  a  ceremonial  hunt  do  they  trudge  away 
to  their  ancient  Chase-Fetiches  to  drink  the  mighty 
breath  of  Mokeitcha.  The  trails  are  so  fearfully 
rough  that  one  can  go  all  the  way  to  the  Rito  much 
sooner  afoot  than  on  even  the  tireless  Indian  pony  ; 
and  they  are  lonely  now,  and  grown  very  dim.  The 
ankle-deep  wee  crystals  of  the  potrero-tops  outsparkle 
the  Valley  of  the  Rocs,  unscuffled  by  passing  feet. 
The  wild  turkey  drinks  unscared  from  the  Rito  de  los 
Frijoles,  and  blinks  at  its  sun-bewildered  walls.  The 
tawny  puma  purrs  in  the  white  light  beside  his  gray 
stone  prototypes  on  the  Potrero  de  las  Vacas  or  the 
Potrero  de  los  Idolos.  And  Cochiti,  at  rest  at  last, 
dreams  on  its  sunward  gravel  bank  along  the  swirl- 
ing Rio  Grande,  and  tills  its  happy  fields,  and  goes  to 
its  Christian  mass,  and  dances  unto  the  Trues,  and 
forgets  that  ever  there  was  war  and  wandering. 


VII 
THE  APACHE  WARRIOR 


THE  APACHE  WARRIOR 


THERE  is  no  manner  of  doubt  that  Leonidas  and 
his  three  hundred  were  very  worthy  citizens ; 
but  it  is  evident  that  they  missed  their  vocation. 
Their  military  intentions  were  creditable  but  crude, 
and  lacked  scientific  light.  Of  the  twofold  functions 
of  the  ideal  warrior  they  knew  but  one  side — to  do 
the  utmost  possible  damage  to  the  enemy.  But  in 
the  twin  duty  they  failed  utterly — and  after  the  gen- 
eral fashion  of  civilized  warfare.  War  seems  to  be 
the  one  thing  which  civilization  makes  impossible  of 
scientific  treatment.  We  have  to  play  it  checker- 
fashion,  or  on  Mosaic  principles,  buying  an  eye  with 
an  eye,  giving  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  We  frill  the  gen- 
eral clumsiness  with  alleged  strategy ;  but  Providence 
remains  on  the  side  of  the  heaviest  battalions.  Our 
own  great  war  was  solved  on  that  principle.  As  long 
as  the  military  geniuses  prevailed,  we  were  very  near 
to  be  whipped.  But  then  came  along  a  tanner  with 
a  tanner's  business  head,  and  began  counting.  He 
summed  up  that  the  North  had  the  most  men  ;  and 
when  he  came  to  that  conclusion  the  Rebellion  was 
doomed.  He  could  afford  to  be  beaten  in  every 
battle,  to  lose  man  for  man,  or  two  for  one ;  and  when 
the  game  was  ended,  he  would  have  men  left.  It 


158  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

was    on    that  line    that    the   civil   checker-game  was 
played  and  won. 

But  the  art  of  war  is  realized  in  another  way.  The 
object  is  to  kill  without  being  killed  ;  to  conquer  and 
still  live  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  victory.  The  brute 
courage  which  dies  fighting  is  often  useful,  sometimes 
admirable ;  but  it  is  not  the  highest  quality.  The 
bull-dog  is  the  only  canine  so  brutally  ignorant  as 
to  hold  one  grip  till  death.  The  higher  dogs 
know  better — they  snap  and  dodge.  Brains  were 
made  to  save  the  hide  as  well  as  shoe-leather. 
If  Leonidas  had  been  an  Apache,  he  would  have 
killed  off  the  Persian  myriads  a  handful  at  a  time, 
without  once  being  seen  by  them.  Three  hundred 
Spartan  wives  and  mothers  would  each  have  been  a 
husband  or  a  son  ahead  by  the  transaction  ;  and  we 
should  have  lost  one  of  the  most  brilliant  examples 
wherewith  we  are  wont  to  call  heroism. 

For  certain  reasons,  which  would  be  tedious  of  dis- 
cussion here,  the  ideal  war-maker  is  found  in  the  sav- 
age, who  has  learned  just  enough  from  civilization  to 
avoid  its  military  follies — which  are  simply  an  enlarge- 
ment of  what  he  practised  before  his  graduation. 
Uncelebrated  in  song,  unappreciated  by  history — and 
thereby  docked  of  his  due  proportion  on  Fame's  can- 
vas— there  is  one  tawny  figure  to  a  brief  inspection  of 
whom  I  would  invite  you. 

For  centuries  which  no  pen  has  recorded,  the  Apache 
has  been  the  most  notable  and  the  least  noted  of 
warriors.  He  has  been  the  scourge  of  a  territory 
greater  than  Europe,  minus  Russia.  To  this  day  his 
name  is  a  bugbear  throughout  an  area  in  which  New 
England  could  be  irrecoverably  lost.  It  is  not  num- 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  159 

bers  that  gave  him  his  reputation.  At  the  outside,  his 
people  cannot  muster  six  thousand.  Of  his  twenty 
tribes,  seventeen  no  longer  contain  so  much  as  the 
seeds  of  war.  More  than  a  decade  ago  they  were 
brought  into  eternal  submission  by  that  silent,  large- 
hearted,  broad-minded,  belied  but  unanswering  sol- 
dier, George  Crook.  The  Apache  who  remained  the 
ideal  warrior  was  the  Chiricahua,  so  called  by  the 
gentlemen  who  have  clinched  their  careless  blunders 
in  our  literature.  His  real  name  is  Chihuicahui, 
after  his  rocky  fastnesses  "  the  Turkey  Mountain." 
The  last  virile  remnant  of  a  shattered  race,  it  long 
looked  uncertain  if  he  ever  would  be  whipped— 
crushed,  he  never  was.  He  was  steered  into  the 
channels  of  quasi-civilization  less  by  his  defeats  than 
by  his  insight.  In  1886  three  hundred  and -fifty- five 
of  him  were  quietly  farming  upon  the  White  Moun- 
tain Reservation,  Arizona ;  seventy-seven  were  lying 
in  a  Florida  prison,  and  thirty-four  were  laughing  to 
scorn  the  power  of  a  nation  of  sixty  millions.  That 
is,  the  sober  majority  had  accepted  the  inevitable 
quietly  and  with  a  growing  content,  in  which  they  will 
remain  so  long  as  a  half-honorable  policy  is  main- 
tained toward  them.  The  desperadoes  were  untam- 
able, and  yielded  at  last,  not  because  they  were 
beaten,  but  because  they  got  their  own  terms. 

On  May  17,  1885,  thirty-four  Chihuicahui  men, 
eight  well-grown  boys,  and  ninety-two  women  and 
children  exchanged  the  reservation  for  the  warpath. 
Among  them  were  Geronimo,  Mangus,  Chihua- 
hua, and  other  aboriginal  Marions.  Up  to  April  i, 
1886,  these  thirty-four  encumbered  warriors  had 
killed  between  three  and  four  hundred  people  in 


i6o 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 


the  United  States  and  Mexico  ;  and  despite  the  un- 
tiring pursuit  of  the  most  experienced  and  most  suc- 
cessful Indian-fighter  our  army  has  ever  had,  lost  but 


THE  APACHE   WARRIOR,  VICTORIO. 


two  of  their  own  number,  killed.  A  dozen  of  their 
women  and  children  were  captured  after  a  campaign 
whose  activity  and  hardships  no  civilized  war  could 
parallel ;  and  a  mixed  threescore  at  last  came  in  of 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  l6l 

their  own  free  will  to  rest  from  their  travels.  After 
that,  for  six  months,  the  remaining  twenty  warriors, 
hampered  by  fourteen  women,  baffled  the  fairly  frantic 
pursuit  of  two  thousand  soldiers,  pushed  by  an  able 
general,  not  to  mention  several  thousand  Mexican 
soldiers.  They  killed  something  less  than  a  hundred 
people,  kept  Sonora,  Chihuahua,  Arizona,  and  New 
Mexico  on  the  tip-toe  of  terror,  and  never  lost  a  man. 
That  is  the  sort  of  warrior  the  Apache  was. 

Physically,  the  Chihuicahui  became  the  flower  of 
his  people.  It  is  not  presumable  that  he  had  any 
initial  advantage  over  his  cousins,  the  Tontos,  the 
Hualapais,  the  Jicarillas,  and  other  Apaches.  That 
he  is  now  far  superior  to  them  can  be  due  only  to  his 
longer  scholarship  in  the  curriculum  of  the  warpath. 
As  a  rule,  he  is  not  of  imposing  height,  though  Man- 
gus  Colorado,  a  great  chief  in  several  ways,  stood  six 
feet  and  a  half  tall.  The  Chihuicahui  majority,  how- 
ever, are  of  medium  stature,  straight  (without  the 
stiffness  which  generally  twins  with  the  American 
attempt  to  be  erect),  compact,  and  strongly  built,  but 
seldom  heavy ;  and  always  of  that  easy  carriage 
which  belongs  alone  to  perfect  physical  condition. 
There  is  never  the  classic  protuberance  of  knotted 
muscle  so  affected  by  our  athletes ;  nor  are  they  in 
fact  so  powerful  in  foot-pounds  as  highly  developed 
Caucasians.  Their  arms  and  legs  are  smooth  and 
round ;  rarely  scrawny  and  rarely  fat.  A  grand 
breadth  and  depth  of  chest  and  generous  substan- 
tiality of  back  are  observable  in  all. 

The  Chihuicahui  head  is  fairly  well  moulded  and 
of  good  size.  The  straight  black  hair  is  generally 
trimmed  at  the  level  of  the  shoulder-blades.  The 


1 62  THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 

features  are  strongly  and  rather  sharply  marked ;  the 
aquiline  nose  not  generally  heavy,  nor  the  lips  over 
full.  The  eyes  are  sparkful,  restless,  and  unfathom- 
able. The  face  is  never  blank,  yet  never  legible.  It 
seems  as  if  the  nerves  and  muscles  by  which,  in  civil- 
ization, the  brain  reflects  its  images  upon  the  counte- 
nance, had  all  been  cut.  There  is  not  a  twitch,  a 
shade,  a  change  by  which  the  keenest  of  us  may  read 
what  is  behind.  And  meantime,  through  this  impas- 
sive mask,  your  tawny  vis-a-vis — a  reader  who  never 
opened  a  book  save  the  great  volume  of  nature — is 
searching  your  very  soul  with  indifferent  eyes  which 
never  look  at  you.  He  can  come  very  near  telling 
what  you  had  for  breakfast.  He  has  kept  the  senses 
which  nature  gave  man,  and  has  educated  them  as 
few  of  us  are  ever  educated  in  anything.  No  sound 
is  so  faint,  no  trace  so  delicate,  as  to  escape  his  no- 
tice ;  nor,  noticed,  as  to  elude  his  comprehension.  A 
pebble  with  its  earthward  side  turned  up,  a  broken 
marguerite,  the  invisible  flash  of  a  gun-barrel  ten 
miles  away — he  notes  and  understands  them  all. 
He  will  stoop  to  a  trail  so  dim  that  the  best  Caucasian 
observer  would  not  dream  of  its  presence,  and  tell 
correctly  how  long  ago  that  imprint  was  made.  The 
arid  hill-side  or  the  dusty  maze  of  the  highway  are  an 
open  book  to  him,  with  full  detail  of  when  and  how 
many  passed,  Indians  or  whites,  men  or  women,  by 
night  or  day.  With  the  practice  of  a  lifetime  the  best 
Saxon  scout  does  not  attain  a  comparable  acuteness. 
The  secret  of  the  Chihuicahui  warrior  is  chiefly  his 
physical  training.  The  white  athlete  begins,  at  best, 
his  training  at  eighteen.  He  thinks  himself,  and  is 
thought,  a  prodigy  of  faithfulness  if  he  gives  six 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  163 

hours  a  day  to  exercise.  He  is  out-of-doors,  at  the 
limit,  one-third  of  the  time.  He  eats  heartily,  in  a 
house ;  sleeps  heavily,  in  a  house — lives  between 
walls.  His  regimen  bulges  each  muscle  to  a  clear- 
cut,  knotted  cord ;  it  develops  enormous  strength  but 
not  supreme  stay.  Endurance  is  the  child  of  such 
hardships  as  he  does  not  care  to  face. 

The  Chihuicahui  is  born  out-of-doors ;  and  until 
his  comrades  pile  above  his  clay  the  rocks  which  shall 
cheat  the  prowling  coyote,  he  draws  no  breath  else- 
where. He  comes  to  a  heritage  of  athletic  centuries. 
The  very  mother  who  bore  him  is  a  sturdy  animal 
capable  of  tiring  out  the  flower  of  the  white  usurpers. 
He  is  always  learning  from  nature  at  first  hands  ;  and 
his  livelihood  and  life  depend  upon  his  observant  re- 
ceptivity. 

To  the  natural  acuteness  of  all  his  kind,  the  coun- 
try of  his  nativity  adds  a  finish  peculiarly  his  own. 
The  Indian-ness  of  an  Indian — his  keenness,  courage, 
and  cunning — seem  to  be  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  his 
larder.  In  the  easy,  grassy,  well-watered,  game- 
populous  regions,  the  aborigine  was  comparatively  a 
lazy,  fat-bodied,  and  fat-witted  brute.  In  the  grim 
deserts  of  the  Southwest  he  became  the  most  tireless, 
acute,  and  terrible  man.  His  whole  existence  a  hard- 
ship, a  struggle  with  a  nature  from  whose  gaunt  fist 
only  the  most  persistent  and  skilful  wrenching  can 
wring  bare  life,  the  Apache  was  whetted  to  a  ferocity 
of  edge,  an  endurance  of  temper,  which  were  impossi- 
ble in  a  more  endurable  country.  He  earned  the  eye 
of  the  kite,  the  ear  of  the  cat,  the  cunning  of  the  fox, 
the  ferocious  courage  and  tirelessness  of  the  gray 
wolf.  Over  the  crags  of  his  arid  ranges  he  could 


1 64  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

travel  farther  in  a  day  than  the  world's  champion  on 
a  cinder  track,  and  keep  it  up  for  more  days.  When 
the  outbreak  of  May,  1885,  occurred,  the  renegades 
—of  whom  ninety  per  cent,  were  women  and  children 
—never  drew  rein  to  eat,  drink,  or  rest  until  they  were 
one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  from  the  reservation. 
The  officers  and  men  selected  by  Crook  to  pursue 
that  band  into  Mexico  were  all  picked  athletes — sun- 
burnt young  fellows  with  muscles  of  steel.  For  ten 
hours  before  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  gallant 
Crawford  was  assassinated  by  Mexican  banditti,  every 
white  man  in  the  company  was  crutched  on  either 
side  by  an  Apache  scout,  who  dragged  him  along  by 
the  arm.  At  the  time  of  the  fight  they  had  been 
marching  for  forty  hours  without  food  or  fire.  The 
six  Caucasians  were  nearly  dead  with  exertion  ;  the 
seventy-nine  Apache  scouts,  who  had  travelled  much 
farther  in  the  same  time,  were  fresh.  In  a  word,  the 
Apache  could  wear  out  in  physical  endurance  the 
most  enduring  of  his  white  foes.  Hunger  he  could 
stand  twice  as  long,  and  thirst  four  times  as  long,  as 
the  best  of  them. 

No  less  important  to  his  success  than  this  great 
endurance,  was  his  method  of  war — and  that  is  a  re- 
cent factor.  Up  to  fifteen  years  ago  the  Apache 
fought  like  a  cinnamon  bear,  or  a  Saxon,  knowing  no 
better.  He  "  stood  up  to  it,"  and  was  fearfully  pun- 
ished. With  mesquite-bow  and  quartz-tipped  arrows 
—and  maybe  an  occasional  musket  in  the  tribe — he 
waged  plucky  but  hopeless  battle  against  our  disci- 
plined and  well-armed  troops.  But,  conservative  as 
he  is  of  the  old  traditions,  it  did  not  take  him  long  to 
see  that  give-and-take  did  not  pay.  After  his  Water- 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  165 

loo  in  1874,  by  Crook,  his  policy  out-fabianed  Fabius. 
It  was  the  policy  of  invisibility.  Throughout  the  two 
last  campaigns  it  was  a  problem  not  of  fighting  but  of 
finding  him.  He  has  ravaged  Arizona  for  a  month 
along  a  zigzag  line  of  march  of  a  thousand  miles,  with 
every  soldier  in  the  department  in  hot  chase  ;  and 
never  so  much  as  once  seen  by  his  pursuers.  But 
they  have  felt  him.  Spurred  to  fresh  haste  by  the 
hideous  scenes  about  some  smoking  ruin  of  a  lonely 
cabin,  the  soldiers  press  angrily  along  the  fresh  trail, 
across  the  arid  plain,  up  the  still  canon.  Pyang! 
Pyang !  From  behind  yon  prickly  rosette  of  the 
aloe,  yon  bowlder,  yon  tuft  of  bear-grass,  sickly  little 
curls  of  smoke  ;  and  for  each  faint  spiral  a  soldier 
has  tumbled.  It  is  no  place  to  stop  and  fight — as 
well  put  your  head  under  a  trip-hammer.  The  only 
thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  out  of  that  death-trap  ;  and 
those  who  are  left  get  out.  By  the  time  they  are 
ready  to  continue  the  pursuit,  the  pursued  are  ten 
miles  away. 

Were  he  a  civilized  soldier,  the  Apache's  policy  of 
elusiveness  would  avail  him  little ;  but  he  is  not. 
Civilization  sacrifices  the  individual  to  the  aggregate. 
Until  personality  is  submerged  more  or  less,  there 
can  be  no  community.  But  the  Apache  has  not  been 
socially  drowned.  He  is  the  essence  of  individuality  ; 
and  particularly  in  war.  He  is  the  military  Louis 
XIV.,  and  can  say  with  fuller  pertinence:  "The 
army  is  I."  He  is  commander-in-chief,  division- 
commander,  brigade-commander,  colonel,  major,  cap- 
tain, rank  and  file,  signal  corps,  engineers,  commis- 
sary, and  transportation.  He  is  always  a  warrior  and 
never  a  soldier.  The  soldier  is  a  machine  which 


1 66      .  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

moves  only  when  the  lever  is  pulled.  It  steps,  turns, 
whistles,  expectorates,  by  word  of  command.  It  is, 
like  most  of  the  other  necessary  lessons  of  civilization 
a  life-training  against  self-reliance.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
our  troops  had  to  be  desoldierized  as  completely  as 
possible  before  they  were  of  any  earthly  use  in  a 
campaign  against  Indians  who  had  turned  war  into  a 
science.  The  Apache,  after  that,  had  nothing  to  un- 
learn. He  was  self:  reliant,  self-contained,  and  self- 
sufficing.  He  needed  nothing  which  the  Saxon  had 
to  have — from  food  to  a  leader.  He  was  equal  by 
himself  to  every  emergency  of  the  desert  and  of 
battle. 

With  his  perfect  physique,  he  had  a  military  adapt- 
ability absolutely  elastic.  When  our  troops  started 
on  a  campaign  of  months  in  the  desert,  they  must  take 
supplies  to  last.  The  saddle  and  pack  animals  could 
not  be  worked  to  death  in  a  week,  but  must  be  kept 
efficient  to  the  end  of  the  campaign.  Here  the 
Apache  had  a  material  though  adventitious  superi- 
ority. He  started  astride  his  best  horse,  and  rode  it 
at  top  speed  until  it  fell.  Timely,  before  this  junct- 
ure, he  had  raided  some  rancho,  and  gathered  fresh 
stock.  He  put  his  knife  to  the  throat  of  his  fallen 
steed,  and  leaped  upon  a  fresh  one,  whose  fate  was 
to  be  as  soon  and  as  certain.  Little  wonder,  then,  if, 
with  his  own  greater  endurance,  he  travelled  incredi- 
ble distances  as  compared  with  those  who  could  not 
afford  to  kill  a  horse  or  two  -a  day.  For  instance, 
Ulzana  and  his  raiders  were  on  our  soil  about  seven 
weeks  in  the  fall  of  1885.  They  killed  thirty-eight 
soldiers,  citizens,  and  friendly  Indians,  lost  but  one  of 
their  own  number,  and  were  never  caught  sight  of  by 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  167 

the  troops  or  civilians  in  pursuit.  In  that  enormous 
ride  they  used  up  twenty  mounts  apiece — two  hundred 
and  sixty  horses.  How  did  they  get  hold  of  so 
many?  A  couple  of  examples  will  show. 

While  the  lamented  Crawford  was  hanging  like  a 
gray  wolf  to  the  trail  of  Ulzana's  band,  they  took 
refuge  in  their  own  Chihuicahui  mountains.  Hard 
pressed  there,  they  made  a  night  dash  to  the  west- 
ward, across  the  broad  Sulphur  Springs  Valley. 
Their  stock  was  on  its  last  legs  ;  and  while  the  rest 
of  the  band  pounded  ahead,  three  lone  bucks  de- 
scended upon  the  sulphur  springs  ranch-house.  In- 
side the  strong  building  snored  a  dozen  cowboys, 
their  six-shooters  under  the  hay  pillows,  their  Win- 
chesters beside  them.  Their  animals  were  in  a  corral 
of  stout  palisade,  with  gates  locked  and  barred.  The 
three  invaders  borrowed  a  hatchet  from  the  wood- 
pile, chopped  down  enough  palisades  to  open  a  gap, 
took  all  the  horses,  and  rode  away. 

Crawford  kept  up  the  chase.  The  remounted  rene- 
gades swept  through  the  Dragoon  and  Mule  Moun- 
tains ;  and  then,  whipping  square  to  the  left,  made 
again  for  the  Chihuicahui  range.  The  day  after  they 
reached  them,  Crawford  came  to  the  spot  where  they 
had  stabbed  to  death  every  one  of  their  horses  and 
taken  to  cover  like  a  bunch  of  quail.  Then  he 
thought  he  had  them.  At  this  time  the  cattlemen  of 
the  San  Simon  Valley  (just  east  of  the  range)  were 
assembled  for  their  fall  round-up,  and  had  camped  in 
force  at  a  rancho  in  the  mouth  of  White-tail  Canon. 
They  knew  the  hostiles  were  near,  but  were  con6- 
dent  in  numbers  In  the  morning,  when  they  awoke 
and  rubbed  their  secure  eyes,  every  last  pony  was 


168  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

gone,  reata  and  all.  The  raiders  had  "  scooped " 
thirty  of  the  best  horses  in  Arizona ;  and  Crawford's 
tremendous  pursuit  found  only  the  trail  of  these  fresh 
steeds  sweeping  far  down  into  Sonora,  where  the 
savaofe  riders  were  secure. 

o 

An  expedition  against  the  hostiles  was  perforce 
accompanied  by  a  pack-train  of  twenty  to  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  patient  mules—the  only  transport  avail- 
able in  that  rugged  land.  The  pack-train  carried  ra- 
tions for  the  probable  length  of  the  campaign.  It 
carried  also  water,  ammunition,  and  cooking  uten- 
sils. Long  cut  off  from  this  slow-moving  base,  the 
command  would  perish  in  such  a  wilderness.  But 
the  Apache  had,  and  needed,  no  pack-train.  His  am- 
munition was  stored  in  numerous  belts  about  his 
body.  His  commissary  was  the  unit  of  simplicity. 
There  were  no  pots,  no  frying-pans,  no  canned  goods, 
no  cases  of  "  hard-tack  and  salt  horse."  When  he 
moved  at  leisure  he  carried  a  load  of  jerked  meat, 
roasted  mescal,  and  other  desert  dainties  ;  but  these 
were  discarded  without  hesitation  in  time  of  need.  A 
white  man  would  have  starved  to  death  without  his 
commissary ;  but  the  Apache  had  an  elastic  adapta- 
bility which  enabled  him  to  eat  more,  or  live  on  less, 
as  circumstances  might  require,  than  anyone  else. 
To  him  the  desert  afforded  a  menu  when  he  had  time 
to  stop  for  it.  He  strolls  over  to  yonder  greasewood 
bush,  wherein  is  a  dry  tangle  of  leaves  and  twigs, 
looking  like  a  bit  of  lodged  drift.  With  imperative 
cudgel  he  punches,  belabors,  and  scatters  this  litter, 
and  presently  extracts  a  score  of  fat  prairie-mice — a 
feast  indeed.  Or,  with  a  long  and  supple  switch  he 
trudges  among  the  sand  hillocks  with  intermittent 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  169 

lashings  of  the  ground,  and  returns  with  a  toothsome 
string  of  gracile  lizards.  Hapless  the  rattlesnake  who 
shall  erect  himself  on  burring  coil  to  make  mouths  at 
an  Apache  when  the  belt  hangs  loose  !  Evicted  from 
that  lozenged  hide,  his  delicate  gray  meat  shall  make 
a  dainty  entree.  All  these  are  seasonable  meats  to 
the  Apache  when  hunger  is  to  be  put  to  sleep  ;  but 
they  are  not  his  only  resources  thereunto.  His  plan 
of  campaign  combines  commissary  and  transportation 
with  supreme  neatness.  When  his  hardy  bronco  at 
last  succumbs  to  hardships  which  would  break  down 
a  locomotive,  his  services  are  not  yet  ended.  The 
tenderest  portions  of  him — if  tenderness  at  all  can  be 
predicted  of  those  leathery  tissues — are  hastily  hacked 
off  to  dangle  in  sun-cured  strips  across  the  back  of 
his  successor.  His  long  intestine,  mayhap,  is  cleaned 
—after  Chihuicahui  notions  of  cleaning — and  becomes 
a  water-keg  of  great  capacity  and  matchless  portabil- 
ity. If  transportation  is  adequate,  twenty  feet  or  so 
of  this  unique  canteen  is  wound  around  a  led-horse  ; 
if  horses  be  scarce,  four  or  five  feet  of  it  is  slung, 
life-preserver  fashion,  about  the  neck  of  some  athletic 
brave,  and  gives  a  family  water  for  a  week. 

The  hostile  does  not  wholly  subsist,  however,  upon 
meat  and  water.  Bread  is  disregarded  on  the  war- 
path, for  flour  would  be  too  difficult  of  transporta- 
tion. But  again  he  lays  nature  under  contribution, 
and  with  wonted  success.  It  is  surprising  how  the 
limited  flora  of  his  sterile  range  caters  to  his  every 
want.  Nearly  every  plant  plays  into  his  hand  some 
trump  card  of  utility.  Chief  of  all  is  that  paradoxical 
growth  the  mescal,  an  aloe  whose  repellent  daggers 
ambush  almost  infinite  generosity.  Shut  an  Apache 


I/O  THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 

up  with  it  alone,  and  it  gives  him  a  livelihood.  With- 
out  it,  the  Apache  question  would  not  have  taken  one- 
half  so  long  to  settle.  This  bristling  benefactor  gives 
the  aborigine  a  quasi-bread  which  is  at  once  nutritious 
and  lasting ;  two  athletic  intoxicants  ;  thread,  and 
even  clothing,  and  countless  minor  staples.  It  grows 
throughout  the  whole  vast  realm  the  Apache  ranged, 
an  ever-present  base  of  supplies.  When  the  raiders 
had  gained  enough  on  their  pursuers  to  afford  a  few 
days'  rest,  a  mescal-roast  was  in  order.  A  pit  was 
dug,  and  a  fire  of  the  greasewood's  crackling  roots 
kept  up  therein  until  the  surroundings  were  well 
heated.  Upon  the  hot  stones  of  the  pit  was  laid  a 
layer  of  the  pulpiest  sections  of  the  mescal ;  upon  this 
a  layer  of  wet  grass  ;  then  another  layer  of  mescal, 
and  another  of  grass,  and  so  on.  Finally,  the  whole 
pile  was  tightly  banked  over  with  earth,  and  nature 
left  to  take  her  course.  The  roasting — or,  rather, 
steaming — takes  from  two  to  four  days.  And  how 
does  the  untutored  chef  know  when  his  desert  clam- 
bake is  done  ?  By  a  very  simple  process.  When  he 
banks  the  pile  with  earth,  he  arranges  a  few  long 
bayonets  of  the  mescal  so  that  their  tips  shall  project. 
When  it  seems  to  him  that  the  roast  should  be  done, 
he  withdraws  one  of  these  plugs.  If  the  lower  end  is 
well-done  he  uncovers  the  heap  and  proceeds  to  feast ; 
if  still  too  rare,  he  covers  the  hole  and  possesses  his 
soul  in  patience  until  a  later  experiment  proves  the 
baking.  The  roasted  mescal  suggests,  in  looks  and 
taste,  a  mixture  of  molasses  candy  and  jute  threads. 
It  does  not  upon  first  acquaintance  endear  itself  to 
the  American  palate,  but  soon  effects  a  reconciliation. 
It  is  very  nutritious,  and  can  be  kept  six  months. 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 

Another  valuable  food  staple  is  the  bean  of  the 
thorny  and  unpromising  mesquite.  Reduced  to  meal, 
it  makes  palatable  cakes.  The  fruit  of  the  Spanish 
bayonet,  dried  in  the  sun,  makes  a  fair  lunch,  sug- 
gesting dates.  Even  the  mountain  acorns  furnish 
excellent  meal.  This  by  no  means  exhausts  the 
Apache's  bill  of  fare  ;  but  it  suffices  to  show  how  he 
keeps  well  nourished  in  a  country  whose  visible 
means  of  support  are  of  vagrant  slimness.  The 
White  Mountain  reservation,  the  Apache's  lawful 
home,  and  the  vast  range  of  the  Sierra  Madre 
(Mexico),  his  favorite  unlawful  refuge,  are  full  of 
game — particularly  deer,  turkey,  and  fish.  Add  to 
this  the  sheep  and  cattle  of  a  thousand  ranches,  and 
it  may  be  seen  that  after  living  robustly  on  the  desert, 
the  hostile  can  live  luxuriously  at  certain  oases. 

Not  less  radical  than  the  Apache's  change  of  policy 
within  a  generation,  has  been  his  change  of  arma- 
ment. From  the  bow-and-arrow  he  has  graduated  to 
skilled  use  of  the  best  modern  facilities  for  murder. 
He  became,  in  his  last  campaigns,  better  equipped 
than  his  official  pursuers.  He  had  the  best  makes  of 
rifles,  and  carried  the  finest  field-glasses  in  Arizona. 
His  sixshooters  were  of  the  best,  and  frequently  had 
ivory  handles.  A  couple  of  hundred  rounds  of  the 
finest  reloading  cartridges  were  handily  bestowed 
about  him  in  regulation  belts  ;  and  in  every  mountain 
fastness  he  had  cached  ammunition  and  spare  guns  in 
plenty.  Whence  ?  Well,  money  will  buy  anything 
in  Arizona  or  Mexico.  The  Apache  warrior  always 
has  money  ;  and  he  can  always  buy  a  gun  in  Tucson, 
not  to  say  in  the  hundreds  of  hamlets  below  the 
line.  He  can  do  it  now  in  time  01  peace  ;  and  he 


1 72  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

could  do  it  equally  well  when  he  was  splotching  half 
Arizona  with  blood. 

So  admirably  armed,  the  Chihuicahui  knew  how  to 
use  his  weapons.  He  might  not  have  won  so  many 
marksmanship  medals  shooting  across  measured 
ground  at  fixed  targets  ;  but  he  had  away  of  shooting 
up-hill,  down-hill,  across  plain,  ravine,  or  ridge,  and 
hitting  what  he  aimed  at.  His  marvellous  eyesight, 
too,  enables  him  to  draw  bead  upon  a  foe  who  would 
be  invisible  to  us.  With  moving  targets  he  is  at 
home,  as  when  Kiowtennay,  the  most  valued  of  the 
friendly  scouts,  started  a  peccary  on  the  march  to 
Canon  de  los  Embudos.  Kiowtennay  put  spurs  to 
his  horse,  and  at  full  gallop  sent  a  Winchester  ball 
square  through  the  brain  of  the  galloping  wild  pig. 

In  actual  battle  the  Apache  showed  the  new  science 
of  Indian  warfare  at  its  best,  and  its  superiority  over 
our  clumsy  tactics.  To  his  strategic  mind  the  exposed 
charge,  the  holding  of  a  hot  position,  seemed  simply 
silly  and  unworthy  of  intelligent  warriors.  He  took 
care  that,  whether  advancing,  retreating,  or  holding 
his  ground,  no  inch  of  his  tawny  hide  should  be  ex- 
posed. Only  his  gleaming  eye  was  bared  to  hostile 
bullets  ;  and  that  is  a  mark  which  few  white  riflemen 
can  see — much  less  score  upon — at  a  hundred  yards. 
But  the  Apache  will  note  the  eye  of  a  foe  at  even 
greater  distance,  and  will  stand  a  very  fair  chance  of 
putting  it  out,  too.  The  soldier  found  him  thus  en- 
trenched among  the  rocks,  and  in  reaching  him  was 
largely  exposed.  He  could  not  take  advantage  of  the 
ground  as  could  his  wily  foe;  and  the  consequence 
was  that  for  every  Apache  killed  in  war  ten  or  twenty 
of  our  soldiers  bit  the  dust. 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  173 

The  Apache  code  of  military  ethics  was  more  logi- 
cal than  handsome.  He  carried  out  in  cold  blood  our 
aphorisms:  "All's  fair  in  love  and  war ;"  and  "To 
the  victors  belong  the  spoils."  He  was,  in  fact,  the 
most  atrocious  freebooter  and  butcher  we  have  ever 
encountered.  I  neither  apologize  for  nor  wonder  at 
him.  He  is  merely  what  our  ancestors  were  a  mil- 
lennium ago — only  much  abler.  His  war-path  eti- 
quette holds  it  perfectly  au  fait  to  kill  men,  women, 
and  children  ;  to  torture,  toast,  and  eviscerate ;  to 
burn,  ravish,  and  rob.  He  himself  has  been  robbed 
by  the  dollar,  by  the  acre,  and  by  the  hundred  miles 
square.  When  it  comes  to  a  fight,  he  has  noticed 
that  his  own  women  and  children  are  first  to  be  killed; 
that  their  scalps  are  worth  as  much  bounty  in  the 
frontier  markets  of  the  Superior  Race  as  are  the 
scalps  of  braves  ;  and  that  all  his  personal  belongings 
are  objects  of  eternal  solicitude  to  a  large  class  of  his 
civilized  neighbors.  He  has  not  to  tax  his  memory 
by  many  years  to  recall  when  a  force  of  Arizona  citi- 
zens marched  to  his  reservation  to  butcher  the  aged, 
the  women,  and  the  babes — taking  good  care  to  call 
when  the  warriors  were  not  at  home.  Those  who 
can  read  recall  numerous  editorials,  in  not  the  smallest 
papers  of  the  land,  condoning  that  sort  of  extermina- 
tion. Little  wonder  if  the  Apache  learned  the  logic 
of  his  Christian  foes,  and  retorted  with  equal  force. 
By  the  way,  however,  he  is  libelled  in  one  immaterial 
point.  The  Apache  is  not  a  scalper.  Nor  is  the 
Navajo.  Scalping  is  essentially  a  custom  of  the  Ind- 
ians of  the  plains  and  forests,  the  northern  and  east- 
ern tribes.  There  have  been  cases  known  in  which 
the  Apache  took  a  scalp,  and  many  of  him  have  been 


174  THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 

scalped  by  Saxons ;  but  the  one  is  as  alien  to  na- 
tional customs  as  the  other.  In  a  majority  of  cases, 
he  merely  kills — unless  the  foe  is  the  object  of  an  old 
grudge,  or  something  of  the  sort.  In  that  event  the 
victor  tries  to  get  even  by  an  infinite  hideousness  and 
complexity  of  mutilation. 

In  speaking  of  the  causes  which  made  the  Apache 
pre-eminent  among  warriors,  I  have  reserved  to  the 
last  one  of  the  most  important — his  country.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  more  fearful  campaigning-ground  in  the 
world. 

The  original  realm  which  this  Bedouin  of  the  New 
World  terrorized  for  centuries,  was  of  enormous  size. 
From  the  Arkansaw  River  in  Colorado  to  Durango, 
Mexico ;  and  from  San  Antonio,  Texas,  to  where 
the  Colorado  laps  the  arid  hem  of  California's  eden, 
he  was  felt.  Ten  years  ago,  decimated  and  restricted 
as  he  had  been,  his  outbreaks  carried  terror  over  the 
majority  of  this  huge  area  ;  his  boundaries  being  a 
little  narrowed  upon  the  north  and  east.  The  diffi- 
culty of  cornering  a  dozen  or  fifty  supremely  elusive 
foes  in  a  territory  as  big  as  Europe,  is  palpable. 
Were  there  ten  thousand  Apaches  on  the  war-path, 
the  task  of  hunting  them  down  would  be  simple  ; 
but  beside  the  catching  of  that  handful,  the  pro- 
verbial needle  in  a  haystack  is  a  sinecure  of  dis- 
covery. 

Not  merely  in  size  was  (and  is)  his  territory  formida- 
ble, but  still  more  in  physical  characteristics.  Apache- 
dom  is  a  vast  wilderness,  and  largely  a  vast  desert- 
partially  redeemable,  and  already  dotted  with  semi-oc- 
casional o^ses.  But  I  could  lead  you  five  hundred  miles 
across  it,  in  a  not  palpably  circuitous  line ;  and  in  all 


THE  APACHE    WARKIOR  175 

that  ghastly  stretch  you  should  not  see  one  drop  of 
water  save  the  precious  fluid  in  our  kegs.  A  desert, 
truly,  and  a  fearful  one.  Yet  it  is  not  a  vast  and 
level  sea  of  lifeless  sands.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a 
raggedly  mountainous  country ;  and  though  sands 
are  plenty,  they  do  not  dominate  the  landscape.  Upon 
a  vast,  burnt-out  plain,  of  undulant  smoothness,  a 
multitude  of  wild  peaks  seem  to  have  been  flung  down 
superficially  and  hap-hazard.  It  is  one  of  the  features 
of  that  unearthly  landscape,  that  the  mountains  ap- 
pear not  to  have  grown  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
but  to  have  been  superimposed.  There  are  no  more 
inhospitable  and  cruel  peaks.  Unkempt  and  dead  and 
shaggy  with  sharp  crags  and  sharper  cacti,  they  grin 
down  upon  the  circumfluent  plain,  by  five  hundred  feet 
to  as  many  thousands.  But  two  animals  have  ever 
shone  as  successes  in  scaling  these  ragged  peaks— 
the  cimarron  and  the  Apache.  The  intervening  val- 
leys are  equally  characteristic.  Melting  in  intangible 
slopes,  with  the  hazy  smoothness  of  the  Southwest, 
accurst  as  the  Sahara,  thirsty  as  death  on  the  battle- 
field, nature  has  yet  painted  them  with  meretricious 
gaudiness.  A  week  after  the  rare  rains,  you  shall 
find  square  leagues  carpeted  with  the  Etruscan  gold  of 
fragile  Eschscholtzias,  the  snow  of  dainty  marguerites, 
the  blood-red  blotches  of  the  nopal,  and  the  varying 
hues  of  many  another  flower.  The  gray-green  of  the 
sage-brush,  the  greasewood's  glaucous  green,  the 
emerald  daggers  of  the  amole,  the  duller-hued  bayo- 
nets of  the  aloe,  topped  with  a  banner  of  waxen  white 
—these  are  everywhere.  And  hither  and  yon  tower 
the  giant  candelabra  of  the  zahuaro.  But  it  is  all  a  lie 
and  a  cheat.  There  is  no  health  in  it.  It  is  deadly 


176  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

as  the  barren  sands,  that  from  a  few  miles  away  may 
stretch  for  unbroken  leagues. 

That  is  our  part  of  the  favorite  Apache  range. 
These  impregnable  peaks,  these  waterless  and  fiery 
valleys,  form  such  an  "underground  railway"  as  the 
Kansas  martyr  never  imagined.  Gifted  with  ordinary 
secretiveness,  one  could  slink  from  Colorado  to  the 
safe  wilderness  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  by  these  Apache 
trails,  and  never  once  be  seen  by  human  eye.  Skulk- 
ing through  the  rugged  ranges  by  day,  dashing  across 
the  valleys  by  night,  he  could  be  as  unobserved  as 
though  he  burrowed  beneath  the  ground.  And  even 
should  some  casual  hostile  glance  detect  him,  he  has 
but  to  scramble  to  yonder  rocky  crest,  and  he  is  safe. 
There,  amply  supplied  with  ammunition,  and  abso- 
lutely unexposed,  he  could  linger  to  slay  as  long  as 
pleased  him,  and  then  slip  away  by  some  canon  back- 
door, and  be  off. 

Such  was  the  chief  war-ground  of  the  Apache.  Its 
savage  lord  knew  every  foot  of  it  better  than  you 
know  your  own  parlor.  Every  water-pocket  in  the 
mountains,  every  petty  spring,  every  hollowed  rock 
wherein  the  rare  rains  might  leave  a  life-giving  drop 
— all  were  his.  The  white  foe  would  die  of  thirst  with- 
in stone's-throw  of  the  hidden  water  ;  but  no  one  ever 
heard  of  an  Apache  perishing  by  the  death  of  the 
desert.  At  every  advantageous  point  he  had  a  strong- 
hold, where  labor  had  supplemented  nature,  and 
where  spare  arms  and  provisions  might  be  cached. 
He  never  went  into  camp,  even  for  a  night,  without 
fortifying  his  position.  A  pursuer  might  pass  with- 
in a  hundred  yards  and  never  suspect;  but  though 
unobtrusive,  the  fortification  was  effective. 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  177 

With  such  a  country  and  such  a  knowledge  of  it,  it 
is  little  wonder  that  the  Apache  was  elusive.  From 
the  outstretched  arm  of  pursuit  he  slid  down  into  old 
Mexico  as  the  picnic  merrymaker  comes  down  the 
greased  pole,  but  with  time  to  murder,  rob,  and 
ravish  in  transit.  Safely  ensconced  in  the  vast  and 
almost  impenetrable  wilderness  of  the  Sierra  Madre, 
he  sallied  out  to  some  Mexican  hamlet,  sold  his  stolen 
stock,  and  bought  ammunition  and  finery.  Resting 
awhile  in  the  mountains,  he  cached  his  most  valuable 
plunder,  looted  perhaps  the  very  village  where  he  had 
been  trading  ;  and  then,  like  a  swart  shadow,  flitted 
back  to  his  Arizona  fastnesses.  The  condition  of  the 
hamlets  which  skirt  the  Mother  Mountains  was  piti- 
ful. The  same  atmosphere  of  terror  was  upon  them 
as  upon  the  Bengalese  village  around  which  the  man- 
eater  prowls.  The  outlying  farms  were  swallowed 
up  in  jungles  of  cane  ;  the  very  footfalls  upon  the 
street  were  nervous.  The  man  of  the  house  went  to 
the  spring  with  carbine  in  hand,  and  none  ventured 
more  than  three  or  four  miles  from  home.  The  re- 
lations of  the  Apache  and  the  paisano — in  Chihuahua, 
that  is,  for  it  was  not  so  in  Sonora — were  peculiar  ; 
hostile  always,  bloody  whenever  occasion  offered,  yet 
comfortably  commercial  when  a  good  round  peso  could 
be  turned  by  either  party.  Nor  did  Chihuahua  have  a 
monopoly  of  this  anomalous  state  of  things.  Many 
American  merchants  in  Southern  Arizona  whose 
voices  were  loudest  to  have  every  Apache — man, 
woman,  and  child,  hostile  and  friendly — exterminated, 
were  at  the  same  time  selling  whiskey,  arms,  and  am- 
munition to  the  hostiles  at  much  handsomer  margins 
than  lawful  trade  was  wont  to  realize.  The  last  six 

12 


178  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

months  in  which  there  were  Apache  horrors,  were  due 
solely  to  an  American  trader  who  saw  a  diminution  of 
profits  in  a  close  of  the  war.  To  avoid  this  dan- 
ger, he  intoxicated  the  Indians  whose  surrender  had 
»  ended  the  outbreak,  and  sent  them  out  on  the  war- 
path again. 

The  dress  of  the  Apache  warrior  when  upon  the 
reservation  is  a  very  gorgeous  affair  by  comparison 
with  his  campaign  gear.  At  home  he  affects  as  much 
as  possible  the  picturesque  buckskin  raiment,  done 
upon  with  fringe  and  silver  and  beadwork ;  and  a 
great  array  of  aboriginal  "jewelry."  But  upon  the 
war-path  he  becomes  a  much  soberer  and  more  prac- 
tical figure. 

The  average  war-dress  begins  with  a  large  and 
aggressive-hued  bandana — generally  turkey-red  or 
orange-yellow — bound  around  the  head  from  occiput 
to  sinciput.  It  is  designed  to  constrain  the  long, 
dense  hair,  and  to  keep  the  sun  from  the  eyes ;  but 
its  availability  for  decorative  purposes  is  not  dis- 
dained, and  it  frequently  bears  one  of  the  silver  disks 
so  popular  with  all  Southwestern  tribes. 

The  ears  are  adorned  invariably  ;  but,  as  a  rule, 
with  less  ponderous  ear-rings  than  those  worn  at 
home.  Sometimes  they  are  strings  of  the  valued  tur- 
quoise ;  but  more  often  silver  circlets.  The  aged 
Nanay,  Victorio's  right-hand  man,  was  inordinately 
fond  of  wearing  in  either  ear  a  huge  gold  watch-chain, 
the  cross-guard  passed  through  a  generous  slit  in  his 
ear,  and  eight  or  ten  inches  of  heavy  links  depending. 

A  necklace  of  some  sort  is  almost  de  r^g^leur, 
though  much  greater  plainness  is  permissible  than  at 
home.  The  average  article  is  a  yard-long  string  of 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  179 

large  glass  beads,  interspersed  with  magical  berries 
and  roots,  and  with  perhaps  a  few  bits  of  turquoise. 
One  necklace  is  quite  enough  for  the  war-path,  though 
on  the  reservation  a  dozen  are  rather  fashionable. 

The  shirt  is  of  print,  and  generally  of  quiet  hues, 
for  the  loud  colors  cultivated  at  San  Carlos  would  at- 
tract entirely  too  much  attention  upon  the  war-path. 
This  thin  upper  garment  is  worn  unsupplemerited 
alike  in  the  one  hundred  and  thirty  degrees  of  the 
summer  desert  and  amid  the  snows  of  the  Sierra 
Blanca.  Adept  as  is  the  Apache  at  all  other  ambus- 
cades, it  has  never  occurred  to  him  to  ambush  the 
extremities  of  his  shirt ;  and  they  are  left  free  to  the 
desert  breeze.  They  conceal  the  commencement  of 
a  pair  of  German  linen  drawers,  designed  to  be 
white,  but  of  a  present  hue  which  is  a  monument  to 
the  vanity  of  human  hopes.  The  drawers,  though 
customary,  are  neither  indispensable  nor  sufficient. 
Those  who  chafe  at  their  constraint  violate  no  rules  of 
Apache  etiquette  in  discarding  them  ;  but  no  one 
may  go,  even  upon  the  war-path,  without  the  G-string. 
This  essential  article  of  apparel — so  named,  probably, 
because  its  convolutions  somewhat  resemble  a  capital 
G — is  in  Apachedom  a  strip  of  unbleached  muslin 
about  six  feet  long  and  two  feet  wide  ;  and  after  it 
has  been  knotted,  the  extremities  form  small  aprons 
in  front  and  rear. 

The  war-moccasin  is  the  most  characteristic  part  of 
the  dress.  It  is  made  of  heavy  buckskin,  sometimes 
left  in  its  natural  soft  gray,  but  more  generally 
stained  a  pleasant  yellow.  Instead  of  aspiring  no 
higher  than  the  ankle— like  the  footgear  of  all  the 
northern  tribes,  and  of  the  Apache  himself  when  at 


l8o  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

home — it  has  a  leg  three  feet  long  but  turned  twice 
over  from  the  top,  so  that  it  reaches  to  the  knee  and 
gives  a  triple  armor  over  the  whole  calf  and  shin. 
The  toe  does  not  end  in  the  usual  flat  point,  but 
turns  up  at  right  angles  in  a  round  disk  the  size  of  a 
half-dollar.  This  disk  is  one  with  the  rawhide  sole. 
The  triple  plating  of  the  shin  and  the  turn-up  toe 
are  to  circumvent  the  omnipresent  and  savage  thorns 
of  the  Apache's  campaigning  ground. 

Rings  and  bracelets  the  warrior  wears  in  plenty. 
They  are  usually  of  silver  or  brass,  though  bead 
bracelets  are  also  sometimes  used.  A  little  case  of 
aboriginal  face-paint  is  always  carried,  and  a  small 
mirror  to  guide  the  application  of  it  in  the  proper 
streaks,  rings,  blotches,  and  dots.  An  awl  encased 
in  leather,  plenty  of  deer-sinew  thread  for  mending 
moccasins,  tobacco  and  cigarette  papers  are  also  arti- 
cles which  every  warrior  keeps  about  him.  Besides 
his  rifle  and  six-shooter,  with  their  belts  of  ammuni- 
tion, he  also  has  a  butcher  knife  of  Connecticut  make. 

With  all  this  array,  habitual  in  camp  and  on  the 
march,  it  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  Apache  will  never 
fight  in  it  save  by  compulsion.  Given  two  minutes' 
notice  of  the  proximity  of  a  foe,  he  will  enter  the  con- 
flict as  unencumbered  as  a  Greek  athlete.  He  strips 
off  everything  except  the  head-kerchief  and  the  G- 
string  ;  and  takes  his  post  behind  some  tiny  shelter, 
his  bare  hide  indistinguishable,  at  a  few  yards'  dis- 
tance, from  the  brown  earth. 

Of  the  leaders  in  the  last  Apache  war — the  outbreak 
of  1885-1886 — a  few  words  are  in  place.  Geronimo, 
who  enjoyed  a  rather  undeserved  newspaper  notoriety 
as  the  head  and  front  of  the  entire  outbreak,  was  no 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  181 

chief.  He  rose  to  eminence  by  force  of  brains  and 
jaw.  Without  the  intellect  of  Chihuahua  or  Nanay, 
he  was  a  stronger  talker  than  either  of  them,  and 
had  as  powerful  a  will.  His  blood  has  been  the 
theme  of  much  fanciful  fiction.  There  was  an  able 
and  circumstantial  story  to  the  effect  that  he  was 
a  Mexican  boy,  captured  by  Victorio  in  1852,  in  the 
little  hamlet  of  Tumacacori,  Sonora,  and  thereafter 
reared  among"  the  Apaches  ;  and  a  dozen  other  sto- 
ries as  plausibly  told.  The  fact,  however,  is,  that 
Geronimo  is  a  full-blooded  Chihuicahui.  He  was 
in  1886  in  the  vicinity  of  forty-six  years  old  ;  a 
compactly  built,  dark-faced  man  of  170  pounds,  and 
about  five  feet  eight  inches  in  height.  The  man  who 
has  once  seen  his  face  will  never  forget  it.  Crueller 
features  were  never  cut.  The  nose  is  broad  and 
heavy,  the  forehead  low  and  wrinkled,  the  chin  full 
and  strong,  the  eyes  like  two  bits  of  obsidian  with  a 
light  behind  them.  The  mouth  is  the  most  noticeable 
feature— a  sharp,  straight,  thin-lipped  gash  of  gen- 
erous length  and  without  one  softening"  curve. 

o  o 

Geronimo  has  long  been  a  prominent  figure  in  Apache- 
dom.  When  the  Apaches  were  first  put  upon  the 
reservation  he  was  right-hand  man  to  the  famous  Juh 
(pronounced  Hoo).  Naliza  was  also  associated  with 
them,  and  they  made  a  gory  trinity — Juh,  the  butcher; 
Geronimo,  the  organizer  and  plotter,  and  Naliza,  the 
orator.  When  Juh  stampeded  first  into  Mexico, 
Geronimo  went  with  him.  In  1878  they  surrendered 
(twenty-two  bucks,  1 19  squaws  and  children)  to  Cap- 
tain Haskell,  and  returned  to  the  reservation.  Gero- 
nimo stayed  there  quietly  until  1881,  when  he  accom- 
panied Juh  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Chihuicahuis  into 


182  THE  APACHE    WARRIOR 

Mexico  again.  Juh  fell  off  a  cliff  while  drunk  and  was 
drowned  near  Casas  Grandes,  Chihuahua.  The  rest 
remained  in  the  wild  Sierra  Madre  until  the  summer 
of  1883,  when  Crook  brought  back  the  whole  500  of 
them  as  the  fruits  of  his  brilliant  campaign.  From 
that  time  till  the  date  of  the  last  outbreak  (May  17, 
1885),  Geronimo  remained  quietly  upon  the  reserva- 
tion, where  he  was  generally  unpopular  on  account  of 
his  overbearing  and  quarrelsome  disposition. 

Mangus,  the  prime  mover  in  this  outbreak,  was  a 
tall,  finely  formed  fellow,  perhaps  forty  years  old. 
He  was  the  son  of  the  famous  Mangus  Colorado  (Red 
Mangus),  a  giant  of  six-feet-seven,  and  as  terrible  as 
he  was  tall.  Mangus  had  a  very  strong,  resolute, 
and  intelligent  face,  but  showed  no  trace  of  the  cun- 
ning ferocity  so  plainly  stamped  upon  Geronimo's 
countenance.  Mrs.  Mangus,  whose  Apache  name  is 
Sago-zhu-ni  (Pretty-mouth)  brewed  the  tizwin  by 
whose  aid  the  eloquence  of  Mangus  and  Geronimo 
won  their  companions  to  the  war-path. 

Na-chi-ta,  or  "  Natchez,"  a  son  of  old  Cochise,  was 
the  hereditary  chief  of  the  Chihuicahuis,  and  the 
"  ranking  officer  "  of  the  renegades.  He  was  not  a 
forceful  character  like  his  nominal  subordinates  but  a 
good-natured,  vacillating  fellow,  fonder  of  wine  and 
women  than  of  war,  but  easily  led  by  the  nose  by 
Geronimo.  He  was  a  tall,  supple,  graceful  Indian,  in 
his  early  thirties,  with  long,  flexible  hands,  and  a 
rather  handsome  but  effeminate  face.  He  stood  five 
feet-eleven  in  his  moccasins,  and  weighed  170  pounds. 
He  went  out  in  every  raid  since  1881. 

Chihuahua  was  really  the  brainiest  man  and  the 
strongest  character  among  the  Chihuicahuis.  His 


THE   APACHE    WARRIOR  183 

handsome,  clean-cut,  powerful  face  gave  true  index  to 
that  behind.  His  countenance  would  be  picked  out 
anywhere  as  a  very  kindly  and  benevolent  one, 
though  pregnant  with  a  reserved  strength  which 
would  warn  an  observant  man  not  to  impose  upon 
him.  He  was  extremely  fond  of  his  bright  children, 
and  had  a  kindly  way  with  other  people's  youngsters. 
But  when  Loco  left  the  reservation  in  the  spring  of 
1882,  and  a  hated  police  officer  attempted  to  inter- 
fere, the  aroused  Chihuahua  whacked  off  the  med- 
dler's head.  Chihuahua  was  once  a  corporal  of 
scouts  under  Lieutenant  Mills  (Twelfth  Infantry),  and 
did  most  effective  service.  His  conduct  on  the  reser- 
vation was  exemplary.  He  devoted  great  care  to  his 
farm,  and  would  never  have  left  had  not  the  terrifying 
lies  of  Geronimo  fairly  forced  him  into  it.  Chihuahua 
was  between  forty-five  and  fifty  years  of  age ;  of 
medium  height  and  thick-set,  muscular  frame. 

Old  Nanay  was  already  superannuated,  and  ranked 
mostly  by  his  former  glories.  He  was  one  of  the 
three  chiefs  of  the  Warm  Springs  Apaches,  Victorio 
and  Loco  being  his  associates.  He  was  the  brains 
of  the  trinity,  and  almost  as  dreaded  as  Victorio,  the 
most  terrible  and  most  famous  of  Apaches.  Nanay's 
last  leadership  of  a  raid  was  in  the  fall  of  1881. 
Since  then  he  has  merely  "  gone  along  "  for  com- 
pany's sake.  He  was  a  short,  fat,  wrinkled  old  man 
of  fourscore  years,  leisurely  in  his  movements,  but 
active  upon  occasion  as  a  kitten.  His  face,  far  from 
attractive,  was  the  most  impassive  and  undecipher- 
able one  of  all — -and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

Ulzanna,  popularly  corrupted  to  "  Hosanna,"  was 
not  a  chief,  but  an  exceptionally  active,  keen,  and 


1 84  THE   APACHE    WARRIOR 

aggressive  warrior  of  great  prominence  in  his  tribe. 
He  was  a  scout  with  Chihuahua,  and  helped  worry 
Nanay  terribly  in  1881.  Ulzanna  led,  in  1885,  the 
bloodiest  raid  the  Territories  have  known  for  years. 
He  was  about  forty  years  old,  of  unpleasantly  fero- 
cious face  and  sturdy  frame. 

Kut-le,  the  bravest  of  the  renegades,  is  another 
who  achieved  fame  by  his  feats  rather  than  his  birth. 
He  was  a  peculiar  fellow,  with  a  strong,  massive  face, 
great  physical  strength,  boundless  courage,  and  won- 
derful accuracy  with  the  rifle.  He  was  one  of  the  six 
scouts  who  left  Fort  Thomas  in  1881  and  accom- 
panied Juh. 

When  Crook,  the  grim,  quiet  soldier  whom  the 
Northern  Indians  called  "the  Grey  Fox,"  and  the 
Apaches  Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,  "  Captain-with-the 
Brown-Clothes  "  (from  his  lack  of  peacock  fondness 
for  the  insignia  of  rank)  left  Arizona  for  the  rest 
well-earned  by  thirty-three  years  of  hard  campaign- 
ing— most  of  it  on  the  frontier — the  backbone  of  the 
Apache  warrior  was  broken.  Of  the  thirty-four  men, 
eight  well-grown  boys,  and  ninety-two  women  and 
children  who  left  the  reservation  on  May  17,  1885, 
only  twenty  men  and  fourteen  women  were  left  upon 
the  war-path.  The  rest  were  dead,  or  immured  in  a 
Florida  prison.  Geronimo  and  Nai-chi-ta  were  the 
only  prominent  men  left  with  the  renegades.  Chi- 
huahua, the  smartest  of  them  all  ;  Old  Nanay,  the 
brains  of  Cochise  ;  Ulzanna,  the  bloodiest  and  foxiest 
of  raiders  ;  Kut-le,  the  bravest  Apache — all  were 
prisoners  in  Fort  Marion.  The  little  band  outstand- 
ing was  disheartened  and  worn  out  by  ceaseless  pur- 
suit. They  wrote  a  few  more  bloody  pages,  as  if  for 


THE  APACHE    WARRIOR  185 

fitting  finis  to  their  ghastly  record  ;  but  it  was  their 
last  gasp.  General  Miles  continued  Crook's  tactics 
of  ceaseless  pursuit  with  the  aid  of  Apache  scouts — to 
whom  the  final  suppression  of  the  renegades  is  due— 
and  at  last  the  weary  Geronimo  and  his  men  sur- 
rendered to  the  tireless  Lawton  and  joined  their 
brethren  in  Florida. 

For  a  year  and  a  half  this  handful  of  men— thirty- 
four  warriors  at  the  most,  and  later  but  twenty — en- 
cumbered by  thrice  their  number  of  women,  children, 
and  babes,  defied,  and  successfully  defied,  the  power 
of  a  nation  of  60,000,000  people,  not  to  mention 
Mexico.  For  every  man  the  hostiles  lost  they  killed 
twenty-five.  They  travelled  such  distances  as  no 
army  in  the  whole  world's  history  ever  approximated, 
and  endured  such  privations  as  would  have  killed  any 
other  men.  In  this  campaign  more  than  in  any  of 
its  predecessors  they  showed  not  only  marvellous 
courage  and  endurance,  but  wonderful  generalship. 

That  is  the  Apache  warrior — unpalliated  and  un- 
gilded — or  rather,  that  he  was,  so  long  as  there  was 
an  Apache  warrior.  The  superb  campaigns  and  man- 
agement of  General  Crook,  with  the  finishing  touches 
added  by  General  Miles,  ended  the  Chihuicahui  as  a 
warlike  factor,  in  1886.  Nothing  but  wanton  abuse 
could  again*  drive  him  upon  the  war-path.  He  is  now 
a  peaceful  farmer,  learning  the  lessons  of  civilization 
as  fast  as  aboriginal  man  can  learn  them — much 
faster  than  the  Saxon  cave-dweller  learned  them. 
But  it  is  worth  while  to  preserve  this  leaf  from  the 
past  which  made  him  famous — the  past  in  which  he 
rose  to  be  the  most  perfect  warrior. 


VIII 
ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  RENEGADES 


ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  RENEGADES 

1886. 

HIGH  noon  in  southern  Arizona.  The  sun  is  a 
flood  of  infinite  fire,  wherein  earth  and  sky  are 
saturated.  The  heavens  are  an  arch  of  burnished 
brass.  The  blinding  landscape  seems  the  thin  crust 
over  a  sea  of  boiling1  lava — as  if  white-hot  from  inner 
fires.  Great  billows  of  heat,  palpable  as  smoke,  waver 
up  from  its  broad  bosom.  If  such  a  thing  as  shade 
were  conceivable  there,  the  mercury  would  stand  at 
135°  beneath  it;  on  that  bare  sand  the  heat  beats 
down  with  indescribable  intensity.  Touch  a  palm  to 
that  sand,  and  you  shall  acquire  blisters  as  from  a  red- 
hot  stove.  The  panting  jack  rabbit  lies  outstretched 
behind  a  fortuitous  bushlet,  careless  of  human  propin- 
quity. The  birds  which  will  be  abroad  at  sunset  are 
absolutely  gone.  There  is  no  moving  thing  but  the 
sinuous  lizards,  which  flash  jerkily  from  sand-hole  to 
sand-hole,  in  salamandrine  heedlessness  of  the  awful 
glow.  There  is  no  faintest  sound  of  life.  No  breeze 
stirs  the  rare  and  tiny  bushes  to  whispering  coquet- 
ries. 

There  is  life  all  about,  but  for  now  in  lethargy. 
Down  in  the  hollow  yonder,  dark  forms,  prone  and 
motionless,  dot  the  sand.  There  are  patches  of  the 
familiar  blue  ;  and  blinding  glints  waver  on  some- 


190      ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE   RENEGADES 

thing  beside  them.  One,  two,  three,  four — they  are 
an  even  hundred  men.  Their  heads  are  covered  with 
heavy  blankets  ;  and  each  is  behind  a  greasewood 
whose  shade  might  equal  that  of  a  hollyhock.  Their 
legs  and  bodies  project  into  the  fiery  glow,  and  you 
note  that  but  twenty  of  them  wear  boots.  All  the 
rest  are  furnished  as  to  the  feet  with  the  pug-nosed 
moccasin  which  the  Apache  wears  upon  the  war-path. 
There  are  twenty  pairs  of  light  blue  trousers,  ten 
pairs  of  grimy  linen  drawers,  and  seventy  pairs  of 
legs  as  bare  and  swart  as  a  Bushman's.  Here  and 
there,  too,  from  under  some  head-muffling  blanket 
straggle  heavy  locks  of  long,  black  hair. 

Not  many  rods  away  from  these  recumbent  figures 
is  another  group,  numerically  equal,  but  socially  less 
—the  mules  of  the  pack-train.  Poor  patient  brutes  ! 
They  stand  in  semicircular  rank,  with  heads  all  tow- 
ard the  centre,  their  big  ears  drooping,  their  fitful 
tails  motionless.  They  do  not  bray,  nor  move  a  mus- 
cle ;  but  with  heads  dependent  and  backs  to  the  sun, 
stand  there  awaiting  with  confidence  the  fall  of  night. 
They  are  too  old  campaigners  to  complain.  In  a 
regular  row  behind  them  are  the  aparejos  and  the 
packs.  There,  too,  are  the  bearded  and  dusty  pack- 
ers, with  each  his  head  poked  beneath  a  saddle.  And 
from  all  this  there  is  no  sound  of  life. 

The  skeleton  shadows  of  the  greasewood  and  the 
mescal  grow  longer.  The  few  tall  candelabra  of  the 
giant-cactus  turn  dark  against  the  southern  sky. 
Songless  birds  flit  here  and  there.  The  long-legged 
jack  rabbit  stretches,  erects  himself  to  an  interrogative 
perpendicular,  and  then  lopes  easily  off  across  the 
plain.  A  lizard  flirts  into  his  hole  just  in  advance  of 


ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES      IQI 

a  suddenly  interested  owl  ;  and  the  mules  voice  their 
tardy  content  in  hysterical  laughter. 

It  is  sunset.  Do  not  fancy  thereby  that  it  is  cool. 
The  mercury  would  still  notch  120° — but  for  awhile 
it  seems  cool.  That  terrific  glare  is  gone,  and  the 
throbbing  eyes  are  grateful.  A  faint  breeze  falters 
across  the  still  ardent  sands — its  breath  the  breath  of 
a  furnace,  but  welcome  contrast  to  that  fiery  stagna- 
tion. The  mules  break  their  regular  alignment  and 
yield  themselves  to  the  untender  hands  of  the  pack- 
ers, who  have  crawled  from  beneath  the  saddles  with 
limp  profanity.  There  is  life,  too,  among  the  recum- 
bent hundred.  The  head  -  muffling  blankets  are 
thrown  off,  and  the  bodies  assume  the  perpendicular 
in  various  degrees  of  unhaste.  There  is  general 
stretching  of  legs  and  arms,  much  vague  cursing,  and 
a  unanimous  rally  to  the  water-kegs. 

And  now  we  may  note  the  personnel  of  the  com- 
mand— Captain  -  -'s  expedition  in  pursuit  of  Ge- 
ronimo  and  his  co-renegades  There  is  the  captain 
himself — a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  youngish  Saxon  of 
tawny  hair  and  beard  ;  his  two  lieutenants,  rather 
younger  ;  the  surgeon,  a  quiet,  unruffled  German  ; 
the  chief  of  scouts,  a  brawny,  clear-eyed  Missourian 
of  twenty  years'  hardening  upon  the  frontier ;  the 
chief  packer  and  fifteen  white  soldiers  of  the  regular 
army.  It  is  noticeable  how  all  of  them  are  of  superb 
physique — bronzed,  deep-throated,  broad-chested,  and 
clean-limbed.  They  are  trained  athletes  every  one, 
picked  for  their  task. 

Near  them,  yet  retaining  a  general  differentiation, 
is  the  real  strength  of  the  expedition — the  company 
of  Apache  scouts.  You  may  well  study  them.  Just 


192       ON  THE    TRAIL    OF  THE   RENEGADES 

such  a  contingent  was  perhaps  never  seen  in  war 
outside  the  incomparable  campaigns  inaugurated  by 
Crook  in  the  Southwest.  There  are  eighty  of  them  ; 
straight,  swarthy,  tireless  sons  of  the  desert — the  only 
human  beings  capable  of  catching  their  renegade 
brethren.  Here  is  Sergeant  Noche,  an  intelligent- 
looking  Chihuicahui  of  about  thirty-eight  years, 
built  like  an  Apollo,  and  dressed  in  the  full  uniform 
of  his  rank.  Here  also  is  Sergeant  Charlie,  who 
wears  the  blouse  and  chevrons  of  Uncle  Sam,  but  the 
nether  garb  of  Apachedom.  Here,  in  full  Apache 
outfit,  is  Dutchy — a  yellow,  evil-faced  Chihuicahui,  of 
whose  traits  his  own  compadres  show  their  apprecia- 
tion by  calling  him  Yellow  Coyote.  He  is  a  danger- 
ous fellow,  and  has  killed  several  whites ;  but  his 
energy,  acuteness,  and  experience  make  him  a  most 
valuable  scout.  He  proves  the  maxim  "  Set  a  thief 
to  catch  a  thief."  Among  his  companions  are  repre- 
sentatives of  half  a  dozen  Apache  tribes  ;  the  Chihui- 
cahuis  predominating,  and  the  Warm  Springs,  White 
Mountains,  Tontos,  and  Mojaves  following  in  that 
order.  Nearly  all  wear  army  blouses  ;  some  have 
drawers  of  unbleached  German  linen  ;  but  most  have 
nothing  below  the  waist  except  the  inevitable  G-string 
and  the  high-topped  moccasins.  It  is  not  a  bad-look- 
ing crowd,  though  one  wherein  the  observant  would 
scarce  "  pick  a  muss."  Great  good-nature  prevails  as 
the  brown  soldiers  cluster  around  hasty  fires  of  the 
greasewood's  ardent  roots  and  cook  the  simple  meal 
of  jerked  venison.  At  the  fire  with  Noche  and 
Dutchy  is  a  notable  figure — a  wee,  shrivelled  but  well- 
proportioned  person  whose  age  might  be  forty  or  one 
hundred,  so  far  as  his  face  or  figure  tell.  His  form 


ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE   RENEGADES      193 

is  wiry,  his  features  thin,  clear-cut,  and  intelligent. 
His  hair  is  long,  jet,  and  straight  as  an  Indian's,  and 
his  color  is  to  match.  But  he  is  no  Indian.  This  is 
Concepcion,  the  Mexican  chief-interpreter.  He  has 
passed  his  life  with  the  Apaches,  who  captured  him 
in  boyhood  and  reared  him  as  one  of  themselves. 
He  was  an  apt  pupil.  He  loves  to  tell  of  the  raids, 
the  robberies,  and  the  butcheries  in  which  he  has  par- 
ticipated, and  always  winds  up  with  :  "  Oh,  yo  era 
muy  diablo  "  (I  was  very  much  a  devil) — a  proposition 
to  which  his  eyes  give  full  credibility. 

The  beans,  the  bacon,  and  the  hard-tack  have  come 
to  grief;  the  pack-saddles  and  packs  are  cinched 
tightly  upon  their  patient  wearers,  and  the  com- 
mand is  ready  to  move.  The  full,  red  moon  floats 
above  the  horizon,  lending  new  unearthliness  to  the 
weird  landscape.  Dutchy's  quick  eye  detects  a  small, 
dark  spot  far  down  the  valley.  No  Caucasian  can  see 
it  for  fifteen  minutes  yet ;  but  all  lay  down  their  guns 
to  await  developments.  In  half  an  hour  is  heard  the 
crunch  of  horse-hoofs  upon  the  crisp  sand  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  more  a  travel-stained  courier  dismounts 
from  his  lathered  brute  and  hands  an  official  envelope 
to  the  captain.  It  is  a  message  from  Crook.  The 
renegades  have  been  seen  the  day  before  in  the  Chi- 
huicahui  Mountains  ;  they  were  heading  south  toward 
Mexico. 

The  order  to  march  is  given  instantly ;  and  in  five 
minutes  the  long  procession  is  stringing  southeast- 
wardly  down  the  ghostly  valley ;  the  pack  -  train 
dangling  in  the  rear,  while  the  scouts  push  ahead 
and  to  either  flank  in  groups,  which  become  more  and 
more  scattered  as  the  night  wears  on.  Midnight 
13 


194      ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

comes  ;  one  o'clock,  two  o'clock,  three  o'clock.  The 
caravan  is  now  fifteen  miles  long,  if  you  count  from 
extreme  rear  to  extreme  front,  though  the  bulk  of  it  is 
within  three  miles.  The  main  force  is  still  skirting 
the  fringes  of  the  lofty  Chihuicahui  range,  whose 
peaks  shoot  far  into  the  mellow  ether,  moonlit  and 
sublimated.  The  scouts  are  sprinkled  ahead,  with 
twenty  of  them  rayed  out  in  fan-fashion  many  miles 
to  the  fore.  Some  are  far  out  on  the  broad,  fair  plain 
of  Sulphur  Springs  Valley;  others  have  skipped  up 
the  rocky  peaks  like  so  many  goats,  and  are  ransack- 
ing every  ravine,  while  a  few  are  skirmishing  about 
the  very  summit,  watching  for  the  distant  signal-fires 
of  the  wily  foe.  The  atmosphere  has  become  cool- 
that  is  to  say,  the  temperature  is  not  to  exceed  one 
hundred  degrees.  I  hardly  need  mention  that  the 
heat  of  Arizona  is  not  like  the  heat  of  Missouri  or 
New  York.  The  glow  of  the  desert  is  dry  and 
withering,  with  none  of  that  muggy,  exhausting 
quality  of  Eastern  summers.  One  hundred  and  ten 
degrees  is  no  more  felt  in  Arizona  than  eighty  de- 
grees in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  except  by 
the  eyes. 

At  four  o'clock  the  soldiers  are  climbing  the  steep 
approach  to  a  pass  whereby  the  range  is  to  be 
crossed ;  and  an  hour  later  are  building  the  breakfast 
fires  in  a  wide  angle  of  the  canon,  whence  their  glow 
will  tell  no  tales  to  savage  eyes  across  the  broad  val- 
ley of  the  San  Simon.  It  is  a  fascinating  outlook 
which  this  lofty  station  commands  as  the  sky  flashes 
into  dawn.  Four  thousand  feet  below  is  the  great 
valley,  stretching  away  to  the  blue  hills  of  New  Mex- 
ico on  the  east ;  and  south  to  the  hazy  ranges  of 


ON  THE    TRAIL    OF  THE  RENEGADES      195 

Old  Mexico.  Northeast  the  Stein's  Peak  range  walls 
the  plain  ;  and  a  trifle  northwest  of  it  rise  the 
mountainous  tiers  which  culminate  upon  the  horizon 
with  the  superb  Sierra  Blanca,  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  miles  away.  Over  all  is  that  peculiarly 
fascinating  haze,  dreamy  and  magical,  which  invests 
the  arid  countries  of  the  Southwest,  and  gives  them  a 
soft  sensuousness,  a  weird  beauty  to  which  the  fairest 
and  most  fertile  regions  of  the  East  are  strangers. 

After  breakfast  and  a  short  rest,  the  march  is  re- 
sumed, the  course  taken  after  leaving  the  canon  and 
descending  to  the  plain  being  in  a  general  south- 
southwesterly  direction.  The  course  is  thus  far  a 
merely  tentative  one,  for  the  field  -  glasses  which 
swept  the  landscape  while  yet  upon  the  mountain  dis- 
closed no  sign  of  the  foe.  All  day  long  the  steady 
trudge,  trudge,  trudge  continues.  It  is  a  fearful  ex- 
perience— such  an  experience  as  the  three  Hebrews  in 
their  fiery  furnace  may  have  known.  The  blinding 
glare,  the  terrific  heat,  the  molten  sand  ;  the  clouds 
of  alkaline  dust  which  rise  from  every  footstep  and 
crawl  lazily  aloft,  filling-  eyes,  nose,  throat  and  lungs 
with  torture  —  who  that  is  of  the  little  band  will  ever 
forget  these  ?  And  what  cataclysm  shall  efface  the 
memory  of  that  thirst,  which  walked  with  each  like  a 
consuming  flame,  which  paralyzed  tongue  and  throat, 
eradicated  the  voice  and  shrivelled  the  lips  to  leather  ? 

So  the  day  wears  off.  The  breathless  but  more 
merciful  night  comes  down  and  brings  brief  respite. 
The  main  command  is  now  near  an  inferior  range ; 
and  a  handful  of  the  tireless  scouts  scatter  up  the 
darkening  slopes,  while  the  Caucasians  sink  to  the 
ground  to  snatch  a  bit  of  sleep.  How  log-like  that 


196       ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

rest  is,  despite  the  stifling  heat  and  the  roughness  of 
the  couch,  and  unrefreshing  as  log-like.  One  arises 
from  it  still  soaked  in  lethargy,  and  for  hours  after- 
ward trudges  on  as  in  a  trance. 

This  nap  is  a  short  one.  It  is  eleven  o'clock  when 
a  tall,  supple  figure  comes  into  camp  on  a  quick  trot 
and  shakes  the  captain  by  the  shoulder.  This  scout 
and  his  companions  have  been  to  the  top  of  the 
range,  whence  they  saw  a  fire  some  twenty  miles  to 
the  southeast.  It  was  too  broad,  too  high,  and  too 
long-lived  for  a  signal-fire,  and  they  take  it  to  be  the 
burning  of  some  building.  The  others  have  pushed 
on  to  reconnoitre,  while  Bi-er-le  brings  back  the  news. 
His  message  acts  like  an  electric  shock.  In  five  min- 
utes every  man  in  the  force  is  afoot :  in  twenty  min- 
utes all  are  moving  up  the  long,  smooth  slope  tow- 
ard the  range ;  while  the  pack-train  with  a  little 
escort  turns  off  down  the  valley  to  the  south,  with 
orders  to  meet  at  Lang's  Ranch. 

Toiling  up  the  steep  mountain  side,  straggling 
down  the  opposite  slope,  crossing  valleys  and  hills, 
barrancas  and  ridges,  they  follow  the  lead  of  Bi-er-le 
all  the  weary  night.  As  the  sky  quickens  to  pearly 
dawn  he  points  to  a  thin,  dark  line  of  smoke  string- 
ing ominously  upward.  They  cross  the  last  divide, 
and  look  down  into  the  smiling  valley.  A  ribbon  of 
vivid  green  down  the  hillside  bespeaks  the  presence 
of  spring  ;  and  beside  it  are  the  tokens  of  human 
occupancy.  In  that  land  of  thirst  the  tiny  cienega  is 
more  than  a  gold-mine  ;  and  by  this  one  a  hardy 
German  had  established  his  little  cattle  rancho  and 
built  his  modest  'dobe  home.  When  it  was  done,  he 
had  brought  over  from  Tucson  his  buxom  wife  and 


ON  THE    TRAIL    OF  THE   RENEGADES      197 

tow-haired  baby,  and  there  they  had  lived,  "  the 
world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot." 

But  that  is  not  what  the  men  see  as  they  run  down 
the  hill  and  stop  panting  among  the  scouts,  who  have 
been  waiting  there  for  hours.  The  adobe  walls  are 
there,  but  bare  and  blackened.  Their  thatch  has 
gone  up  in  smoke,  and  only  ashes  mark  where  stood 
the  wagons  and  the  stacks  of  hoe-mown  hay.  Scat- 
tered here  and  there  are  the  carcasses  of  half  a  dozen 
cattle,  from  which  small  chunks  of  meat  have  been 
cut.  Around  the  corner  of  the  ruined  house  is  the 
stalwart  ranchero,  stretched  upon  the  ground.  A  big, 
rough  stake,  split  from  his  own  wagon,  is  driven 
through  his  abdomen  and  deep  into  the  hard  earth. 
The  poor  eyeballs,  gouged  from  their  sockets,  have 
been  replaced  wrong-side  out.  The  ears  are  pinned 
to  either  side  of  the  nose  with  cactus  thorns.  There 
are  other  mutilations  which  no  pen  dare  tell.  A  few 
yards  away  lies  the  little  frau,  staked  down  by  wrists 
and  ankles,  the  victim  of  a  thousand  deaths  ;  and 
across  her  poor  clay  the  body  of  her  babe. 

The  scouts  have  read  from  the  tracks  that  the  hos- 
tiles  number  twenty  warriors,  with  twenty-five  women 
and  children— a  strong  party.  From  other  indica- 
tions it  is  believed  that  the  band  is  Geronimo's  own. 
There  is  no  more  thought  of  rest,  though  the  march 
already  has  been  exhausting,  and  the  heat  is  una- 
bated. The  majority  of  the  scouts  are  already  miles 
ahead  upon  the  easily  followed  trail.  The  white  con- 
tingent is  an  hour  late  in  starting,  and  leaves  behind 
it  two  decent  mounds,  with  a  rough  board  at  the  head 
of  each.  The  march  is  rapid  but  moody.  There  is 
little  conversation,  and  a  general  irritability  is  evi- 


198       ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE   RENEGADES 

dent.  A  stub  of  the  toe  brings  a  snarl  of  profanity, 
entirely  disproportionate,  from  the  victim,  while  his 
companions  act  as  though  he  had  no  business  to  be 
so  clumsy.  One  would  fancy  he  had  done  violence 
to  their  toes  instead  of  his  own.  Everyone  is  out  of 
sorts  — the  usual  careless  cheeriness  is  gone. 

The  trail  indicates  that  the  hostiles  have  made  a 
straight  shoot  for  their  fastnesses  far  below  the  Mexi- 
can line,  and  arrangements  are  made  accordingly. 
The  trail  is  dropped,  and  the  command  switches 
across  to  the  supply-camp  at  Lang's  Ranch,  in  the 
extreme  southwest  corner  of  New  Mexico.  Here  a 
day  goes  in  fitting  out  for  a  long  campaign.  The  in- 
structions from  General  Crook  are :  "  Pursue  with 
utmost  vigor,  regardless  of  department  or  national 
boundaries."  That  means  that  it  may  be  three 
months  before  the  company  again  sees  United  States 
soil.  The  pack-train  has  got  in  ahead,  having  taken 
a  much  shorter  route.  The  packers  are  carefully 
overhauling  their  appurtenances,  and  paying  partic- 
ular attention  to  their  animals.  These  long-eared 
plodders  carry  the  lives  of  the  command,  and  they 
earn  a  respect  not  everywhere  given  them.  The 
chief  packer  of  the  department,  veteran  Tom  Moore, 
has  his  own  ideas  about  them.  Says  he : 

"  People  disparage  the  mule  because  they  do  not 
know  him.  He  is  no  accident.  God  made  the  mule 
on  purpose.  The  horse  has  that  in  him  which  shows 
he  was  meant  for  something  more  than  a  mere  slave. 
Man  needed  a  straight-out  servant,  and  so  God  built 
him  the  mule.  And  a  true  servant  he  is,  from  the 
time  he  begins  to  walk  until  the  breath  leaves  his 
worn-out  shell.  You  might  almost  say  he  is  useful 


ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE   RENEGADES      199 

every  day  of  his  life.  He  is  always  faithful  and  always 
reliable  if  rightly  treated.  He  knows  his  business, 
and  does  it  as  few  men  do  theirs.  It  is  an  idiocy  to 
curse  and  club  him.  Any  man  in  my  train  who  does 
it,  gets  his  walking  papers." 

The  lieutenant  who  acts  as  quartermaster  replen- 
ishes the  commissary  from  the  supply  depot.  The 
scouts  are  busy,  too.  With  awls  and  deer-sinew 
thread  they  patch  their  moccasins,  or  supplant  an  at- 
tenuated sole  with  a  new  piece  of  rawhide,  with  the 
hair  down.  This  done,  they  proceed  to  the  no  less 
exigent  duty  of  personal  decoration  for  the  war-path. 
With  a  generous  tallow  shampoo  they  mollify  their 
great  shocks  of  bushy  hair,  till  it  is  sleek  and  obedi- 
ent. Next  in  order  conies  attention  to  the  complexion. 
A  few  of  the  more  fastidious  have  with  them  little 
packages  of  American  dry  paint,  mostly  vermilion. 
The  ordinary  face-powder,  however,  is  more  simple 
of  acquirement.  Some  colored  rock  is  pulverized  and 
mixed  with  grease  to  the  consistency  of  salve  ;  after 
which  it  is  artistically  applied  with  the  middle  or  fore- 
finger of  the  right  hand,  a  little  mirror  being  used  as 
a  guide  to  the  proceeding.  Some  of  the  more  fanci- 
ful have  selected  a  blue  micaceous  stone,  whose  dust 
glitters  weirdly  upon  their  swart  faces.  Others,  who 
have  killed  a  conejo  or  a  deer,  have  drawn  across  the 
face,  from  ear  to  ear,  an  inch-wide  band  of  blood. 
But  the  artists  of  the  whole  band  are  two  coffee- 
coolers,*  who  have  found  a  wayside  vein  of  green 
copper-ore,  and  have  bedaubed  their  faces  with  its 
tallowed  powder,  while  a  trans-nasal  stripe  of  vermil- 
ion gives  the  finishing  touch.  The  green  has  the 

*  Lazy  and  inferior  scouts. 


200      ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

most  ghastly  effect  conceivable ;  and  has  converted 
two  rather  tame-looking  aborigines  into  the  most  cut- 
throat-looking pirates  that  ever  trod  the  earth. 

It  is  a  day  less  fiery  than  its  predecessors  as  the 
command  files  out  of  Lang's  Ranch,  crosses  the  na- 
tional boundary  line,  and  plunges  into  the  inhospitable 
depths  of  the  step-sister  republic.  In  a  few  miles  it 
meets  Bi-er-le  and  his  detachment,  who  have  been  re- 
connoitring the  trail  of  the  renegades.  They  have 
followed  it  for  fifty  miles,  to  learn  the  probable  desti- 
nation of  the  hostiles.  and  then  come  back  to  bring 
such  information  as  they  have  gathered — which  is  to 
the  general  effect  that  the  hostiles  have  scooped  in  an 
abundance  of  good  stock  and  miscellaneous  plunder, 
and  are  moving  leisurely  southwest. 

The  command  pushes  forward  as  rapidly  as  may 
be  through  the  Sierra  Media,  over  Dos  Carretas 
Creek,  and  thus  across  the  northwestern  corner  of  the 
great  Mexican  State  of  Chihuahua  ;  thence  down  deep 
into  Sonora,  past  the  little  towns  of  Bavispe,  Basserac 
and  Guachineva  to  Huepere  Creek,  one  hundred  and 
seven  miles  from  Lang's.  Here  it  is  the  intention  to 
rest  a  day,  as  the  hard  marching  has  told  on  the  white 
men  and  pack  animals  ;  but  a  tattered  and  greasy 
mail-carrier  brings  a  note  which  denies  this  pleasant 
recess.  The  prefect  of  the  Montezuma  district  in- 
forms by  these  presents  that  there  has  been  a  large 
band  of  Apaches,  mostly  women  and  children,  operat- 
ing in  that  vicinity,  and  that  the  citizens  of  Oposura 
have  followed  them  from  the  Sonora  River  over  to  the 
Terez  Mountains.  It  is  dusk  when  this  news  comes ; 
and  at  midnight  all  are  again  under  way,  little  rested, 
but  hopeful  of  a  brush  with  the  elusive  foe.  After  a 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       2OI 

long,  hard  scramble  over  the  Huepere,  Madera,  and 
Oputo  Mountains,  six  o'clock  the  next  evening  finds 
the  company  going  into  camp  six  miles  north  of 
Oputo.  The  Presidente  of  that  hamlet  declares  that 
the  chase  is  getting  warm.  He  only  wishes  they  had 
arrived  twenty-four  hours  earlier.  That  very  day  the 
hostiles  have  fired  upon  farmers  fifteen  miles  north, 
killing  one  man  and  running  off  some  stock.  An  hour 
later,  just  as  the  sun  is  going  down,  twenty-six  excited 
Oputans  come  into  camp,  and  with  an  avalanche  of 
gestures  promulgate  that  they  have  been  chasing 
these  hostiles,  and  saw  them  kill  a  beef  and  take  it 
into  the  Joya  Mountains.  The  command  is  dead 
weary — the  white  contingent,  that  is — and  positively 
unable  to  move  further  without  some  rest.  The  scouts, 
however,  are  fresh  as  daisies ;  and  as  soon  as  night 
drops  her  curtains,  six  of  these  are  sent  out  to  sneak 
into  the  Joya  and  locate  the  hostile  camp.  Before 
daylight  next  morning  all  are  off  and  march  down  to 
a  point  a  mile  below  Oputo,  where  they  camp  in  a 
concealed  position,  and  lie  close  all  day.  At  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  two  of  the  six  scouts  come  in. 
They  have  trailed  up  the  hostiles  into  the  mountains, 
at  a  respectful  distance  and  watched  for  detailed  in- 
formation from  a  commanding  point.  They  saw  the 
hostile  squaws  gathering  mescal  for  a  grand  mescal- 
bake,  and  by  closely  watching  their  movements  have 
learned  that  the  camp  is  located  upon  the  highest 
peak  of  the  Joya.  They  have  come  to  tell,  leaving 
the  other  four  to  watch.  This  is  good  news.  Every 
ear  is  pricked  up,  and  every  eye  sparkles.  It  looks, 
as  though  there  were  after  all  to  be  a  "  whack"  at 
these  evasive  wretches.  At  midnight,  leaving  the  en- 


202       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

tire  pack-train  under  guard,  and  personally  carrying* 
two  days'  rations,  they  march  across  atrociously 
rough  country  till  daylight,  which  finds  them  nine 
miles  north  of  Oputo.  Here  at  the  first  streaks  of 
dawn,  they  conceal  themselves  in  the  timber — for  they 
are  now  in  a  well-watered  and  wooded  country,  a 
smiling  contrast  to  the  hideous  desert  left  behind— 
and  lie  there  through  the  whole  day,  passing  the  hours 
as  well  as  may  be.  It  is  not  exactly  a  hilarious  time. 
Cooking  is  interdicted,  and  there  will  hardly  be  an- 
other fire  so  long  as  they  are  in  Mexico.  Hunting 
is  also  out  of  the  question  ;  nor  will  it  do  to  move 
about  promiscuously,  for  any  slightest  exposure  is 
liable  to  be  noted  by  the  concealed  savage  upon  yon- 
der peak,  who  is  even  now  sweeping  the  country  with 
as  fine  a  pair  of  field-glasses  as  the  United  States 
affords.  So  the  day  passes  tediously  enough.  The 
scouts  amuse  themselves  playing  con  quien  for  one 
another's  cartridges.  The  white  soldiers  as  a  rule 
sleep  sonorously  beneath  the  grateful  shade — for  the 
weather  is  still  like  the  hinges  of  Hades.  In  the  after- 
noon all  the  scouts  are  sent  out  to  join  the  four  who 
have  been  all  this  time  watching  the  hostile  camp. 
They  drop  their  blankets,  grasp  their  rifles,  and  slink 
away  through  the  barrancas  and  mesquite  thickets 
like  grim,  dark  shadows.  At  7  P.M.  the  entire  com- 
mand follows,  marching  silently  through  the  gather- 
ing darkness,  and  spreading  out  more  and  more  as 
they  cut  down  the  nine  miles  between  them  and  the 
mountain,  whose  great  dark  bulk  looms  upon  the 
starry  sky.  Before  the  east  shows  a  sign  of  waken- 
ing day,  a  cordon  of  grimly  eager  men  is  drawn  en- 
tirely around  the  peak,  about  a  mile  below  its  summit. 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       203 

As  day  breaks  there  is  cautious  advance  up  the  rugged 
steep,  the  furtive  scouts  in  the  lead  slipping  from  bush 
to  bush,  from  rock  to  sheltering  rock,  never  exposed, 
never  at  a  loss  The  silence  is  ominous.  The  men 
nervously  hold  their  thumbs  upon  the  hammer  and 
poke  their  guns  before  them  as  they  worm  up  the 
breathless  acclivity.  And  still  no  sound — till  suddenly 
Noche,  who  has  been  snaking  far  ahead  upon  his 
belly,  leaps  to  his  feet  upon  the  rocky  summit  with  a 
howl  of  rage,  which  is  echoed  from  every  throat  as 
the  rest  rush  forward  to  find  themselves  in  a  deserted 
camp,  bare  as  a  bird's  foot.  Those  ineffable  dodgers, 
seeing  troops  in  the  Oputa  Valley,  and  knowing  that 
there  are  Chihuicahui  scouts  along  as  acute  as  them- 
selves, have  slunk  from  their  camp  at  about  the  same 
time  the  force  started  from  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
They  are  now  thirty  or  forty  miles  away.  It  is  an 
occasion  which  tests  the  profane  ability  of  every  pur- 
suer, and  oaths  of  every  description — English,  Span- 
ish, and  choice  Chihuicahui — fill  the  air.  There  is  little 
comfort  in  the  fact — read  by  the  scouts  from  tatters  of 
the  women's  dresses  found  on  the  thorns — that  the 
band  was  Geronimo's  very  own. 

While  half-a-dozen  scouts  follow  up  the  trail  of  the 
renegades,  others  are  sent  back  to  pilot  the  pack- 
train,  and  the  command  moves  quietly  down  to  the 
swift  Bavispe  River,  camping  in  the  dense  canebrakes 
at  the  mouth  of  the  San  Juan  and  there  awaiting  the 
pack-train,  which  comes  up  on  the  second  day.  One 
of  the  scouts,  who  was  with  the  hostiles  in  the  last 
outbreak,  knows  a  large  spring  on  the  eastern  slope 
of  La  Joya,  where  the  mescal  grows  in  great  abun- 
dance. It  is  a  favorite  resort  of  the  renegades,  who 


204       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

frequently  camp  there  six  or  seven  days  at  a  time 
for  a  grand  mescal-roast.  In  hope  that  they  may 
now  do  so,  seventy-six  of  the  best  scouts,  with  five 
days'  short-rations,  are  sent  thither,  while  the  rest 
of  the  command  moves  down  to  Bavispe,  across  the 
mountains  and  on  to  Huepere  Creek.  The  scouts  are 
there  ahead,  with  good  news.  Bi-er-le,  with  a  few 
Coyotero  scouts,  has  surprised  a  small  band  of  hos- 
tiles  and  bushwhacked  them  commendably,  killing 
two  of  them  and  capturing  four  horses,  three  saddles, 
three  bridles,  and  three  blankets.  This  is  an  impor- 
tant "  action  "  for  an  Apache  war. 

The  trail  of  the  renegades  now  bends  south  toward 
the  Sierra  Madre,  and  seventy-eight  scouts  are  sent 
in  pursuit  under  a  lieutenant  and  two  chiefs-of-scouts 
(white  men)  ;  while  the  rest  of  the  command  stays  in 
camp  near  Huepere,  awaiting  the  return  of  the  pack- 
train  which  has  been  sent  to  Lang's  Ranch  for  sup- 
plies. A  week  later,  the  seventy-eight  scouts  sur- 
prise Geronimo's  camp  thirty  miles  north-northeast 
of  Nacori,  in  a  mountainous  stronghold.  A  surprise 
means  here  not  exactly  what  it  would  in  civilized  war- 
fare. It  is  merely  that  the  pursuers  get  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  pursued  before  they  are  de- 
tected ;  that  they  catch  a  few  running  shots  at  elu- 
sive figures  which  melt  behind  bush  and  rock  like  so 
many  phantoms,  swap  lead  awhile  and  are  off — leav- 
ing to  the  foe  such  impediments  as  cannot  handily  be 
carried  away.  Upon  the  present  occasion  the  scouts, 
by  infinite  work  and  strategy,  crawling  bellywise  all 
night  along  the  rough  ground,  came  very  close  upon 
Geronimo's  camp.  At  five  hundred  yards  one  of  the 
hostiles  heard  an  unfortunate  twig  snap,  and  the  stalk 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       205 

was  up.  From  answering  rock  to  rock  the  bullets 
pattered.  The  scouts,  stripping  off  every  rag  save 
the  G-string,  crawled  forward  from  cover  to  cover, 
firing  as  they  went.  The  hostiles  retrograded  in  the 
same  fashion  ;  and  when  the  assaulting  party  reached 
their  empty  camp,  they  had  maintained  their  dis- 
tance, or,  perhaps,  gained  a  little.  The  fight  is  an 
unusually  one-sided  one.  Not  a  man  of  the  pursuers 
is  hurt  save  the  lieutenant,  whose  Caucasian  tactics 
were  not  sufficiently  secretive,  and  whose  shoulder 
has  suffered  serious  boring.  But  in  the  hostile  camp 
and  the  next  half  mile  of  pursuit  are  found  the  bodies 
of  three  warriors,  one  squaw,  one  eleven-year-old 
boy,  and  a  nursing  baby — the  usual  fortune  when  it 
comes  to  a  fight. 

The  lieutenant's  shoulder  is  bandaged,  the  corpses 
are  left  to  the  coyotes  for  interment,  and  the  men  fol- 
low the  scouts,  who  have  pressed  on  in  running  pur- 
suit. In  the  race  that  afternoon  they  capture  all  the 
laggards  of  the  foe — fifteen  squaws  and  children,  thir- 
teen horses  and  mules,  the  blankets,  saddles,  and  en- 
tire camp-outfit,  including  a  few  battered  pots,  some 
jerked  meat,  and  a  large  quantity  of  roasted  mescal. 
Among  the  captured  children  is  one  big-headed,  wide- 
eyed,  handsome  boy-baby — Little  Robe,  a  son  of 
Geronimo.* 

The  hostiles  gain  thirty  miles  a  day;  and  detailing 
a  dozen  scouts  to  keep  posted  as  to  their  general 
course,  the  command  camps  on  the  third  day  to  await 
the  arrival  of  the  replenished  pack-trains  ;  upon  their 

*  This  little  fellow  with  his  mother  was  taken  to  Fort  Bowie,  and  was  a  great 
pet  at  the  guard-house  there  for  several  months.  He  died  there  September  10, 
1885,  and  was  buried  in  the  lonely  little  graveyard  below  the  fort. 


206       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

coming",  to  push  on  again  into  the  wild  and  lonely 
south. 

For  the  next  three  weeks  there  is  little  to  record, 
save  the  monotonous  and  unresting  pursuit.  There 
is  news  of  the  hostiles,  now  and  then,  in  terrorized 
hamlets.  There  has  been  a  swoop  down  upon  their 
herds,  all  the  best  stock  has  been  swept  away  and  the 
vaqueros  slain.  That  is  about  all  they  know.  They 
have  not  been  particular  about  following  the  maraud- 
ers, who  have  gone  "  three  days  to  the  south."  In 
all  these  towns  are  met  dislike  ;  in  the  larger  ones, 
undisguised  hostility.  In  Basserac,  the  alcade  tries 
to  shoot  Dutchy  and  a  couple  of  his  companions,  out 
of  mere  wantonness.  Anything  American  is  as  hated 
as  the  Apaches  themselves — perhaps  more  so.  These 
paisanos  are  not,  however,  above  making  a  peso  out 
of  the  common  foe;  and  despite  the  utmost  vigilance 
they  are  constantly  bringing  out  mescal  and  pulque 
through  the  bushes  to  the  scouts.  %  The  blouses  and 
the  chevrons  and  the  $13  per  month  are  all  very  good 
in  their  way,  but  they  are  only  a  veneer  of  discipline. 
No  power  could  make  a  band  of  Apaches  march  in 
rank  or  column  ;  it  is  a  physical  impossibility  to  watch 
that  two-mile  procession  so  closely  that  the  ardent 
will  not  leak  in. 

News  from  the  Presidente  of  Granadas,  and  from 
General  Guerra — a  commander  in  the  regular  Mexi- 
can army,  who  is  out  with  five  hundred  men  in  pur- 
suit of  the  broncos  * — tells  that  there  have  been  dep- 
radations  near  Toni-babi,  up  among  the  Oposura 
Mountains  ;  and  thither  the  force  hastens.  South- 
east of  Tepache  they  "  cut  "  (intersect)  a  hot  trail,  and 

*  Frontierism  for  hostile  Apaches  as  distinguished  from  Apache  scouts. 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       207 

follow  it,  without  rest  or  food,  to  the  top  of  rugged 
Mount  Salitral.  Long  before,  however,  the  hostiles 
have  become  aware  of  the  pursuit.  The  lookout, 
whom  they  invariably  leave  from  five  to  twenty  miles 
in  the  rear,  armed  with  the  finest  of  field-glasses,  has 
"spotted"  the  pursuers,  who  gain  the  mountain-top 
less  than  an  hour  behind  the  foe  ;  and  stumble  upon 
the  carcasses — some  still  warm — of  thirty  horses  and 
burros  which  they  have  stabbed  and  abandoned  upon 
finding  the  pursuit  too  hot.  They  are  scattered  now 
like  quail  among  the  rocks,  all  afoot.  Their  trail  is 
almost  undiscernible,  even  to  the  hawk-like  eyes 
which  are  bent  above  it.  Sergeant  Cooley  (Apache) 
and  nineteen  scouts  push  ahead  of  all  the  rest,  using 
the  utmost  caution.  Within  twenty  miles  they  over- 
take the  rear-guard  of  the  hostiles  and  capture  their 
blankets.  Cooley  and  his  brother  imprudently  hurry 
on,  and  half  a  mile  later  literally  walk  into  an  ambush. 
A  bullet  fired  ten  feet  away  pierces  the  heart  of  Coo- 
ley's  brother,  and  Cooley  saves  himself  only  by  a 
lightning  drop  behind  a  rock.  There  is  a  general 
running  fight  from  that  on  till  dark.  One  of  the 
scouts  gets  a  bullet  in  his  thigh,  and  one  bronco  is 
left  to  fester  behind  his  fortress  rock.  Several  more 
hostiles  are  more  or  less  wounded,  judging  by  the 
gory  bandages  and  blood-drops  found  on  the  trail 
next  day. 

So  it  goes.  For  every  shot  at  a  hostile  the  pur- 
suers travel  two  hundred  miles  over  the  roughest, 
wildest,  most  forsaken  country  on  the  face  of  the 
globe  ;  consumed  by  sultry  heat ;  devoured  at  night 
by  myriads  of  atrocious  insects  ;  too  tired  and  hot  to 
relish  the  greasy  fare  of  bacon  and  heavy  bread ; 


208       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF  THE  RENEGADES 

with  sore  and  sometimes  bleeding  feet ;  with  clothing" 
soaked  for  days  at  a  time  by  tremendous  rains  which 
obliterate  every  trail.  From  the  time  of  crossing  the 
Mexican  line  until  the  return  to  the  United  States  they 
do  not  see  a  post-office,  telegraph-office,  or  railroad. 
They  are  as  much  shut  off  from  the  world  as  though 
midway  on  a  journey  to  the  moon.  To-day  they 
chase  a  rumor  east  and  to-morrow  double  westward 
on  it.  And  all  this  time  that  matchless  foe  is  having 
much  his  own  way. 

Between  Nacosari  and  Cumpas  there  is  a  diversion. 
While  following  a  trail  of  Chihuahua's  band — which 
has  just  gathered  in  all  the  valuable  horses  from  the 
American  Ranch — the  command  comes  upon  an  Amer- 
ican man  and  woman  concealed  in  a  ravine.  The  wom- 
an has  a  cartridge-belt  around  her  waist,  in  one 
hand  a  Winchester,  and  in  the  other  a  double-bar- 
relled shot-gun.  And  she  means  business.  Woe  to 
the  foremost  scout  if  she  had  not  seen  in  time  his  reg- 
ulation blouse  !  She  has  a  stirring  story  to  tell. 
Yesterday  afternoon  a  band  of  hostiles  attacked  her 
party — four  men  and  herself — on  their  way  from 
Tombstone  via  Nacosari  to  some  mines  in  the  Naco- 
sari Mountains.  One  American  was  killed  at  the  first 
fire,  and  two  others  ran  for  dear  life,  leaving  their 
companion  to  shift  for  herself.  One  man  stayed  with 
her,  apparently  because  he  was  too  frightened  to  run. 
But  the  plucky  woman  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
Running  to  the  body  of  the  dead  man  under  fire, 
she  grabbed  the  shot-gun  from  his  hands,  a  belt  of 
cartridges  from  his  waist,  and  the  Winchester  from 
his  mule,  and  opened  on  the  foe.  One  of  the  hostiles 
still  carries  a  buckshot  which  she  tucked  under  his 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF  THE  RENEGADES      209 

tawny  hide.  She  "  stood  off"  the  raiders,  and  re- 
treated in  good  order  with  her  companion — leaving 
all  their  burros  and  effects,  however,  in  the  enemy's 
hands.  Later  in  the  day  was  found  the  body  of  the 
dead  American,  and  beside  it  the  four  empty  shot-gun 
cartridges  used  by  gritty  Belle  Davis,  of  Tombstone, 
in  her  fight  for  life.  The  two  Americans  who  ran 
away  were  never  heard  more  of.  Let  us  trust  that 
the  Apaches  caught  and  toasted  them. 

It  were  needless  to  detail  more  of  the  expedition. 
The  middle  chapter  is  like  the  first,  the  last  like  the 
middle.  The  chase  leads  hither  and  yon  over  the 
untenanted  plains  and  ineffably  rugged  mountains, 
in  doublings,  loops,  and  many  an  elusive  maze.  It  is 
followed  until  the  very  scouts  are  worn  out — their 
moccasons  in  rags  , their  feet  cut  and  swollen,  and 
their  temper  inflamed.  The  white  men  of  the  party, 
who  have  not  travelled  one-half  so  far,  are  nearly 
dead  of  fatigue.  The  commissary  is  again  running 
low,  and  the  enlistment  of  the  scouts  will  be  out  in 
ten  days.  So  when  they  have  followed  a  small  trail 
up  through  Guadalupe  canon  and  lost  it  close  to  the 
national  line,  they  meet  a  courier  from  headquarters 
with  orders  to  proceed  to  Fort  Bowie,  leaving  the 
pursuit  to  Captain  -  — ,  who  takes  it  up  as  they  de- 
part. 

Then  comes  the  weary  tramp  up  the  arid  valleys  of 
Arizona,  and  on  the  ninetieth  day  they  file  down  the 
winding  path  through  Apache  Pass,  in  upon  the 
steeply  sloping  parade-ground  of  Fort  Bowie.  The 
paymaster  has  just  arrived.  The  scouts  are  paid  off 
next  day,  and  "blow  themselves  in  "  at  Belong' s  sut- 
ler's store,  whence  they  emerge  resplendent  in  new 
14 


210       ON  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

bandana  handkerchiefs,  gay  Mexican  zarapes,  and 
many  a  foolish  trinket.  As  next  morning's  sun  fires 
the  Chihuicahui  peaks,  the  wild  procession  of  scouts 
—now  mounted  on  hardy  little  ponies  of  their  own- 
files  out  through  the  notch  into  the  bare,  broad  plain, 
and  is  off  for  Fort  Apache,  at  the  reservation,  where 
they  will  be  disbanded.  The  old  fort  sinks  back  to 
sleepiness  broken  only  by  the  daily  routine  of  disci- 
pline, and  men  eat  and  sleep  hard — resting  for  a  while 
from  that  three  months'*  taste  of  life  on  an  Apache 
trail. 

Fort  Bowie  was  built  here  in  1862  by  the  Califor- 
nia Volunteers.  Three-quarters  of  a  mile  west,  on  a 
pretty  little  bench  above  the  wash,  stands  the  grave- 
yard, within  a  high  picket  fence.  Its  white  head- 
boards gleam  in  the  eternal  sun,  and  doves  coo  upon 
the  narrow  mounds.  Between  its  ridges  the  ground 
is  gay  with  golden  wild  poppies  and  snowy  marg- 
rites ;  and  here  and  there,  upon  some  less-neglected 
grave  a  buckhorn  cactus  spreads  its  prickly  antlers, 
or  a  turk's  head  nestles  close  to  the  bare  gravel. 
There  are  but  two  memorial  stones  in  the  whole  en- 
closure ;  all  the  other  head-boards  are  of  pine,  planed 
and  painted  white,  while  cramped  black  letters  in 
straggling  lines  tell  their  terse  story.  All  burying- 
grounds  cover  that  which  was  once  life  and  hope  and 
love ;  but  this  lonely  half-acre  along  the  barren  hill- 
side of  Apache  Pass  is  eloquent  with  the  story  of  the 
Arizona  frontier.  It  is  full  of  Apache  workmanship. 
The  dumb  upheavals  of  its  brown  breast  tell  of  the 
old  stage  creaking  up  the  desolate  canon  ;  the  sud- 
den little  puff  from  behind  yon  innocent  tuft  of  bear- 
grass,  matched  by  another  from  that  rock,  and  an- 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       211 

other  from  the  aloe-bunch  beyond ;  the  sturdy  driver 
tumbling  from  his  perch  ;  the  tangled  horses  floun- 
dering in  terror ;  the  ashen  passenger  dragged  from 
his  concealment ;  and  last  of  all  a  horrid  bonfire 
whose  smoke  goes  up  with  sickening  smells  and 
shrieks. 

There  are  thirty-three  graves  whose  head-boards 
record    simply    that:    "  -  —  died    on    the     — th    of 

— ,  18 — ."  Of  these,  seven  were  children.  The 
presumption  is  that  they  passed  away  in  the  course  of 
nature.  Another  board  is  so  weathered  that  it  no 
longer  tells  what  may  lie  beneath. 

One  of  the  first  graves  as  one  enters  is  that,  so  the 
board  says,  of 

o.  O.  SPENCE. 

BORN  IN  PENNSYLVANIA. 

Killed  by  Indians,  April  7,  1876. 

Close   beside    it  is    a  broad   wooden  cross,  along 
whose  arms  runs  the  legend,  in  ornate  letters, 

NICHOLAS  M.  ROGERS. 

BORN  IN  ST.  JOSEPH,  Mo. 

Killed  by  Indians,  April  7,  1876. 

Next  it  in  the  line  stands  one  to  the  memory  of 

JOHN  McWILLIAMS. 
Killed  by  Apaches,  Feb.  26,  1872.     Aged  26. 

Beyond  is  a  wider  mound,  whose  board  tells  of 

A.  F.  BICE,  F.  PETTY,  F.  DONOVAN. 
Killed  by  Indians  in  Apache  Pass,  Jan.  24,  1872. 


212       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF  THE  RENEGADES 
Next  comes  a  board  bearing  the  simple  inscription : 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
COL.  STONE. 
Supposed  to  be. 

That  last  line  is  a  whole  page  of  the  frontier.  Col- 
onel Stone  had  a  mine  on  the  hills  just  back  of  the 
fort.  One  day  he  disappeared,  and  searchers  found 
only  a  mass  of  meat,  hacked  past  recognition,  but 
" supposed  to  be"  the  missing  miner.  There  are 
other  similar  guess  -  work  graves  —  "  Lieut.  Julian 
Agueira,  supposed  to  be  ;  "  "  James  Mclntyre,  sup- 
posed to  be  ;  "  "  John  Kilbey,  supposed  to  be." 
Another  head-board  says  : 

IN  MEMORIAM  OF 
GEO.  KNOWLES, 

Prvt.   Co.  H.,    32  U.  S.    Inf.,    captured  and   tortured   to  death  by 
Apache  Indians,  May  26,  1868. 

Knowles  and  another  private  named  King  were 
acting  as  guards  to  the  stage  down  the  pass.  Just 
before  they  reached  the  plain,  the  stage  was  "jumped  " 
by  Apaches,  and  the  driver  instantly  killed.  The 
conductor,  who  was  known  here  as  "  Tennessee," 
"  stood  off"  the  foe  for  a  while,  but  was  soon 
wounded  and  overcome.  For  some  reason  the  Apa- 
ches did  not  butcher  him,  but  carried  him  off  captive. 
He  was  afterward  killed  in  Mexico  in  a  fight  between 
the  Apaches  and  Mexicans.  The  two  soldiers  do  not 
appear  to  have  made  any  resistance — no  empty  shells 
from  their  guns  could  be  found.  They  probably 
threw  up  their  hands  and  surrendered.  Poor  fools  ! 


ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES       213 

Their  captors  bound  and  roasted  them  alive,  with  va- 
riations. 

In  the  northeast  corner  of  the  yard  are  two  tiny 
mounds,  side  by  side.  One  head-board  says : 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
LITTLE-ROBE, 

Sow  OF 

GERONIMO, 

APACHE  CHIEF. 

Died  Sept.  10,  1885  ; 

Age  two  years. 

The  other : 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

MARCIA, 

AN  APACHE  CHILD, 

Died  July  3,  1885  ; 

Age  three  years. 

It  was  a  soldierly  and  a  manly  heart  which  cared 
that  these  poor  little  captive  waifs  had  decent  burial, 
and  that  their  last  resting-place  was  decently  marked. 
It  would  hardly  have  befallen  so,  in  those  days  and 
that  part  of  Arizona,  outside  of  army  circles. 

Besides  the  victims  above  recorded  of  Apache  bul- 
let and  knife,  the  following  names  are  on  other  boards 
in  this  quiet  ground,  each  with  the  ominous  line, 
"  Killed  by  Apaches  :  " 

LIEUT.  JOHN  C.  CARROLL,  32nd  Infantry,  Nov.  5,  1867. 

SAMUEL  HICKMAN,  Private,  Troop  F,  Fourth  Cav.,  Oct.  10,  1885. 

JOHN  M.  Coss. 

JOHN  F.  KEITH,  June  25,  1862. 

PETER  R.  MALONEY,  ist  Cav.,  California  Vols.,  June  25,  1862. 

ALBERT  SCHMIDT,  June  25,  1865. 


214       ON  THE   TRAIL    OF   THE  RENEGADES 

CASSIUS  A.  B.  FISHER,  formerly  of  ist  Inf.,  California  Volunteers, 
Feb.  19,  1867. 
JOHN  BROWNLEY,  May  26,  1868. 

There  are  fourteen  other  graves  whose  head-boards 
bear  the  pregnant  line, 

"UNKNOWN," 

and  eleven  unmarked  mounds.  A  fair  record,  that, 
fof  the  little  area  almost  within  gun-shot  of  the  fort. 
It  is  one  short  page  of  the  Apache's  incomparable 
autograph  book. 


IX 
NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS* 

FOR  seven  years  I  have  been  collecting  the  folk- 
songs of  the  Spanish  and  Indian  Southwest. 
The  acquisition  of  several  thousand  of  these  quaint 
ditties  has  been  no  small  labor.  They  had  never 
been  written  out,  but  were  preserved  by  oral  trans- 
mission, like  the  Indian  folk-lore,  and  without  the 
remarkable  exactness  which  the  ceremonial  nature  of 
the  latter  secures.  To  get  the  entire  words  of  a  song 
was  therefore  sometimes  a  matter  of  trailing  them 
through  the  mouths  of  scores  of  singers,  a  territory 
asunder.  Most  difficult  of  all  was  it  to  get  the  music 
correctly.  Aside  from  the  characteristic  idiosyncra- 
sies of  these  airs — their  unique  rhythm  with  strange 
swings  and  rests  and  runs — there  was  an  ever-present 
obstacle  in  the  deficiency  of  the  teacher.  There 
everybody  sings,  and  almost  nobody  can  sing.  Out 
of  this  great  collection  of  songs,  acquired  from  hun- 
dreds of  different  sources,  I  learned  less  than  a  score 
from  persons  who  had  any  remotest  understanding  of 
music.  There  was  but  one  way  to  get  an  air.  A 
phonograph  would  have  scared  off  my  bashful  trouba- 
dours, even  if  it  could  have  caught — as  no  portable 
phonograph  yet  devised  could  catch,  with  its  varying 

*  For  the  vtry  accurate  transcription  of  the  airs  of  these  songs  I  am  indebtel 
to  the  young  American  composer.  Henry  Holden  Hu  s.  Fn  the  words  accompany- 
ing the  music  I  have  accented  the  words  which  have  to  be  mispronounced  to  meet 
the  stress  of  the  song. 


2l8  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

register — the  unique  movimiento  which  is  the  heart 
of  that  music.  I  had  to  sit  by  the  hour  before  crack- 
ling adobe  hearth  or  by  the  ruddy  camp-fire,  singing 
each  song  over  time  after  time  in  unison  with  my 
good-natured  instructors,  until  I  knew  the  air  abso- 
lutely by  heart — and  not  only  the  air,  but  the 
exact  rendition  of  it.  To  learn  an  air  is  ordinarily 
simple  ;  but  to  learn  a  Mexican  paisano  air  just  as 
the  paisano  sings  it  in  New  Mexico,  is  really  a  matter 
of  great  difficulty.  By  dint  of  perseverance,  however, 
I  succeeded  ;  and  at  least  a-  majority  of  the  folk-songs 
of  New  Mexico  are  at  last  in  shape  for  preservation, 
and  none  too  soon,  for  they  are  fast  changing  and 
disappearing  under  the  new  order  of  things. 

It  is  curious  how  little  the  New  Mexican  is  a 
singer.  Unlike  the  clear-voiced  Sonoran,  he  seems 
not  to  have  the  wherewithal,  though  his  intention  is 
equally  tuneful.  Among  the  native  Californians 
beautiful  voices  are  not  rare  ;  but  California  is  a  land 
where  nature  herself  knows  how  to  sing.  In  arid, 
lonely,  gaunt  New  Mexico,  where  the  centuries  have 
been  so  beset  with  danger  that  speech  sank  to  timid 
intonation,  and  where  nature  herself  seems  dumb, 
music  has  taken  the  imprint  of  its  surroundings. 
The  paisano  sings  in  palpable  doubt  of  his  own 
voice.  Perhaps  that  phenomenally  dry  atmosphere 
has  somewhat  dessicated  his  larynx,  too.*  At  all 
events,  his  tones  are  very  apt  to  be  husky.  He  slurs 
his  notes  sadly,  and  is  prone  to  reduplicate  them. 
He  sings  always  con  espresione,  but  to  him  expression 
has  but  two  devices.  The  more  he  is  inspired,  the 

*  And  yet,  as  I  have  noted,  the  voiced  of  the  Pueblos  are  almost  universally 
clear. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  2ig 

higher  he  clambers  after  his  pitch  in  falsetto  and  the 
more  conscientiously  nasal  he  becomes.  And  yet 
there  is  something"  far  from  contemptible  in  the  hum- 
blest singing  of  these  humble  songs  of  the  soil. 
While  the  fragrant  cedar  roars  in  the  camp-fire  and 
the  huddled  sheep  sleep  amid  the  mountain  snows,  it 
is  well  worth  while  to  listen  to  the  tattered  shepherd 
as  he  beguiles  the  unparalleled  loneliness  of  his  lot 
with  vague  ditties  of  his  own.  And  when  these  folk- 
songs are  well  sung,  some  of  them  are  really  charm- 
ing. There  is  always  one  salvation.  Clear-voiced 
or  husky,  the  Mexican  is  invariably  a  master  of  time. 
His  technique  may  fail  at  other  points,  but  the  tempo 
is  faultless.  It  is  so  in  his  singing  and  in  his  playing. 
To  certain  simple  instruments  he  seems  to  have  been 
born.  He  can  always  play  the  musica,  or  harmonica, 
and  he  learns  the  concertina  with  great  ease,  and  al- 
so the  guitar.  He  has,  too,  a  rude  musical  apology  of 
his  own,  invented  in  and  confined  to  the  sheep  camp— 
the  bijuela.  This  is  a  giant  jews-harp  made  of  a  bow 
with  a  key  and  one  string.  When  he  can  afford  it, 
this  string  is  a  guitar-gut  and  the  bow  made  of  hard 
wood  and  three  feet  long.  But  in  case  of  need  a  bijue- 
la can  be  constructed  of  a  fairly  stiff  weed-stalk  and  a 
linen  thread.  One  end  of  the  bow  is  held  between  the 
teeth,  with  the  string  outward,  and  it  is  "  fanned" 
in  the  precise  manner  of  a  jews-harp.  The  result- 
ant air  is  more  audible  and  not  without  sweetness. 

The  shepherd's  life  is  the  loneliest  in  New  Mexico 
—if  not  in  the  world — and  he  is  the  largest  produc- 
er of  folk-songs.     Away  in  the  bleak  wilderness  for 
months  at  a  time,  with  no  other  companionship  than 
that  of  his  two  thousand   maddening  woolly  wards, 


220  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

his  two  dogs,  and  his  one  human  comrade,  unlettered 
and  undeliberative,  he  must  have  some  resource  or 
go  insane.  Almost  the  only  diversion  within  his 
power  is  song,  and  to  that  he  turns,  whether  quali- 
fied or  not.  He  can  neither  read  nor  write,  but  he 
can  always  make  verses — for  Spanish  is  a  language 
which  cannot  help  rhyming — and  though  he  does  not 
know  one  note  from  another,  he  can  always  devise  an 
air.  He  has  a  good  ear  and  a  very  quick  one,  and 
a  limited  natural  gift  of  improvisation.  When  the  old 
songs  cease  to  be  a  bulwark  against  the  wilderness, 
he  is  not  long  at  a  loss  to  make  new.  The  majority 
of  the  home-spun  songs  of  New  Mexico  are  from  him, 
since  no  one  else  has  so  much  time  for  composition, 
nor  such  need  of  self-amusement.  But  many  songs— 
and  some  rather  creditable  ones — are  invented  by 
the  rare  good  singers  who  are  the  life  of  winter 
evenings  in  the  little  hamlets,  and  who  are  spurred 
by  their  popularity  to  new  repertories  for  the  benefit 
of  admiring  fireside  groups. 

Love  is  the  favorite  motive  of  New  Mexican  folk- 
songs, and  generally  love's  pangs.  As  one  would 
expect  who  knew  the  history  of  that  long-suffering 
land,  there  is  a  strain  of  sadness  in  the  very  songs. 
Nearly  all  are  in  a  minor  key.  The  comic  is  unheard- 
of,  the  witty  or  sarcastic  is  rare,  though  with  some 
clever  representatives.  But  amid  the  general  sighs 
of  unrequited  affection  there  is  not  lacking  a  certain 
poetic  touch.  Even  a  rude  philosophy  is  sometimes 
dominant,  and  there  are  many  sly  turns  of  consider- 
able depth  and  adroitness. 

Among  the  most  characteristic  love-songs  in  my 
collection  is  the  best  of  a  host  of  the  same  title, 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


221 


"  Angel  of  Love."  I  learned  it  on  a  lonely  stage-drive 
of  eighty  miles  in  Western  Arizona  from  a  tuneful 
Mexican  who  had  brought  it  from  Los  Corrales, 
N.  M.,  where  both  he  and  the  song  originated.  Be- 
sides other  typical  qualities  it  fairly  illustrates  how 
much  more  expression  the  average  paisano  can  get 
into  music  than  into  words. 


ANGEL    DE    AMOR. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 


An   -   gel       de  a  -  mor. 
Oh,    Love!    your      pas 


pren 

stand  -  ing, 


Si      la  comprendo 

I    under    -    stand    it, 


no      la       pue  -  do  es-pres- 
but  'twill    not    be       ex- 


^3-  -5-    ^W-    ^5- * 


ar. 
pressed. 


Voy 


en  -  eel  -  ar. 


tu     -     u 


Ian    -    gui  -  do      ge- 
go      to      hide  .........     your    sigh   -  ing  and    your 


mi    -   do,     Alia    en     la 
an    -  guish  There  in     the 


turn  -  ba 
tomb,  where 


par    po    -  der    des  -  can- 
only  can       I       be       at 


ear. 
rest. 


Ye      no      gien  -  to  el    que  me  hay  -  as,      que- 
I        la  -  ment  not  what  you    did       me,        be- 


ri  -    do, 
lov  -  ed, 


Yo      no  sien  -  to  el      que   me      hay  -  as       am- 

I        la    -     ment  not  that     to     love    you    did       en- 


-^j      II    U       _|- 


ar    -    lo,  So-    lo    sien  -  to  el  que  me  hay-as       cam-biar     -     lo        Con    o- 
elave   me,  On  -  ly     do        I      la  -  ment    that     you    gave        me      Up     for 

rit animato.  


tro  hom-bre 
another  who 


mas  in  -    fer-ior    one 
is    lebs     a    man  than 


Co  -  mo  el  que  tie-ne  u  -  na 
I.  .  .   .     Like  him  who  has    a    bar- 


yo  ____ 


222 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


mu    -    -    si  -  ca,       Y         no       la       sa    -    be        to  -  car, 
mon    -    -    i    -  ca,      And     not     the    knowledge       to     play, 


A- 

So 


si       se     que  -    -    da,  Ay!  el  hom-bre     en    es  -   te 
goes  the    world un  -   tuned . .     to    him    for    - 


mun 
ev    -    er. 


Cuan-do  en  el  mundo  no    se       sa  -  be  es-pres-ar !  — 

Who.,  feels,  but  feel    -    -    ing  has     no  power  to     say! 

ANGEL  DE  AMOR. 
Angel  de  amor,  tu  pasion  no  la  comprendo, 

Si  la  comprendo,  no  la  puedo  espresar, 
Voy  enceler  tu  languido  gemido, 

Alia  en  la  tumba,  par  poder  descansar. 
Yo  no  siento  el  que  me  hayas  querido, 

Yo  no  siento  el  que  me  hayas  amarlo, 
Solo  siento  el  que  me  hayas  cambiarlo  * 

Con  otro  hombre  mas  inferior  que  yo. 
Como  el  que  tiene  una  musica 

Y  no  la  sabe  tocar — 
Asi  se  queda,  hay !  el  hombre  en  este  mundo 

Cuando  en  el  mundo  no  se  sabe  espresar. 

is,  as  nearly  as   I  can  preserve  its  spirit  in 

ANGEL  OF  LOVE. 

0  Love,  your  passion  passes  understanding  ; 

I  understand  it,  yes  !  but  'twill  not  be  exprest. 

1  go  to  hide  your  sighing  and  your  anguish 

There  in  the  tomb,  where  only  can  I  be  at  rest. 
I  lament  not  what  you  did  me,  beloved, 

I  lament  not  that  to  love  you  did  enslave  me  ; 
Only  do  I  lament  it  that  you  gave  me 

Up  for  another  who  is  less  a  man  than  I. 
Ah,  like  him  who  has  a  harmonica 

And  not  the  knowledge  to  play, 
So  goes  the  world  untuned  to  him  forever 

Who  feels,  but  feeling  has  no  power  to  say. 

*  In  good  Spanish  these  rhymes  should  be  the  past  participles  amado  and 
cambiado. 


That 
English 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


223 


More  typical  of  the  depth  of  lovelorn  despair 
which  marks  a  large  class  of  New  Mexican  folk- 
songs, and  of  as  characteristic  melody,  is  the  favorite 
"  Ay  !  Ay  !  Ay  !  "  (pronounced  I  !  I  !  I  !  an  interjec- 
tion equivalent  to  "alas  !  "),  composed  by  an  unedu- 
cated but  intelligent  man  who  has  some  facility  with 
hard  words. 


Allegretto  con  anima. 


AY!    AY!    AY! 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY    HOLDEN  HUS8. 


To  -  ma,  Luisa  el     pun  -  al        y      tras-pa-sa  Es  -   te    pe  -  cho,  pero 

Take,  Lou -i    -  sa,    this    djg-ger    and  plunge  it         In     my  bos-om,     but 


an  -  tee          pri  -  me  -  ro,        Con  -  eid  -   e    -    ra        que  te  a  -  mo  y       te 
first,    1  im  -  plore  thee,       To     re  -  mem-ber          I     love    and         a- 


m 


quie-  ro,   ay !    ay  !    ay !    Y       por  ti      me      di  -    ce"n    in  -  fel  •  iz.  Ay  ! . . 

dore  thee,  ay!   ay!    ay!    And   for  thee  am     a       by  -  word  of    woe.        Ay!.. 


ay  I  ay  !  Que  infel-iz  es      mi  suer  -  te !  Yo 

ay !  ay !  How  un  -  hap    -    py      my  fate    is!  I... 


o      tea-do- 
a-dore 


ro  y     de-eeo  ser    tua-man-te    Pe  -  ro  tu    ni         si  qnie-raun    in- 

thee,  and  would      be      thy  lov  -  er,  But  thou         dost  not      one  feel-ing     dis- 


stan-te,    ay !    ay !    ay  I  Ni  un  mo  -  men  -  to     te  a  -  cner-das     de     mi. 
cov  -  er,   ay  !    ay  !    ay  I  Nor  a  mo  -  ment. . .     be  -  think  thee    of     me. 


AY  !  AY  !  AY  ! 

Toma,  Luisa,  el  pufial  y  traspasa 

Este  pecho,  pero  antes  primero 

Considera  que  te  amo  y  te  quiero,  ay!  ay!  ay! 
Y  por  ti  me  dicen  infeliz 


224  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

Coro  :    Ay  !  ay!  ay  !  que  infeliz  es  mi  suerte, 
Yo  te  adoro  y  deseo  ser  tu  amante, 
Pero  tu  ni  siquiera  un  instante,  ay  !  ay !  ay ! 
Ni  un  momento  te  acuerdas  de  mi. 

Las  memorias  de  un  marajitero  * 

Me  atormentan  en  cada  momento  ; 

Ay  !  Dios  mio,  no  hay  sufrimiento,  ay!  ay!  ay! 
Cielo  santo,  yo  quiero  morir. — Coro. 

Clava,  clava  el  pufial  sanguinario, 

Dele  muerte  a  mi  vida  y  honor ! 

Que  algun  dia  pagards  el  rigor,  ay  !  ay!  ay! 
Con  otro  hombre  que  sepas  amar. — Coro. 

Bajare  silencioso  a"  la  tumba 
A  buscar  mi  perdido  sociego, 
De  rodillas,  ingrata,  te  ruego,  ay  !  ay  !  ay  ! 

Que  a"  lo  menos  te  acuerdes  de  mi. — Coro. 

Which  may  be  translated  : 

ALAS! 

Take,  Louisa,  this  dagger  and  plunge  it 
In  my  bosom  ;  but  first  I  implore  thee 
To  remember  I  love  and  adore  thee,  ay  !  ay  !  ay  ! 

And  for  thee  am  a  by-word  for  woe. 

Chorus  :  Ay  !  ay  !  ay  !  how  unhappy  my  fate  is  ! 
I  adore  thee  and  would  be  thy  lover  ; 
But  thou  dost  not  one  feeling  discover,  ay  !  ay  !  ay  ! 
Nor  for  a  moment  bethink  thee  of  me. 

Mem'ry  gives  me  the  pangs  of  a  martyr, 
Every  instant  new  tortures  preparing — 
Ah,  my  God  !  it  is  pain  beyond  bearing,  ay !  ay  !  ay ! 

Holy  heaven,  I  ask  but  to  die. — Chorus. 

Drive,  oh  drive,  the  red  knife  in  my  bosom, 

Death  to  honor  and  life  at  a  blow  : 

For  one  day  thou  shalt  pay  for  my  woe,  ay  !  ay  !  ay  ! 
When  another  shall  teach  thee  to  love. — Chorus. 

I  will  go  to  the  grave  uncomplaining 

If  it  give  me  a  peace  like  the  old  one  ; 

On  my  knees  I  implore  thee,  my  cold  one, 
That  at  least  thou  remember  me  there. — Refrain. 

*  A  local  word  ;  a  corruption,  apparently,  of  martirio,  a  martyr. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


225 


A  song  of  much  humble  rhetoric  and  passion  is  the 
extremely  quaint  "Suzanita" — a  duet.  It  was  taught 
me  by  one  Epiphany,  a  tattered  sixteen-year-old  shep- 
herd of  San  Mateo ;  and  I  have  never  heard  it  except 
among  the  people  of  that  remote  hamlet. 


SUZANITA. 


TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN   HUSS. 


Su  -zan-i 
Lit-  tie    Su 


ta, 
sie, 


Su-znn-i   -    ta,        Se.Vor  -  i    -    ta,    man  -  de     u- 
lit  -tie     Su  -  tie,      Lit  -tie    la  -  dy,  ____      cail      a 


?q=3^ j-  „     J" — i 

*~Y*  *—1r—*=2- 


Bted  ;  Fran-que  -  e     -    me        un    va  -  so    de  a  -   gua, 

cup;  l'rith-ee,     give     me         a    glass    of      wa   -   ter, 


ya      me  a  -  bra    -    zo       de       Bed. 
with    thirst  I'm       burn  -  ing      up. 


Ni      ten  -  go       vas  -   o,         m 
Sir,    I've  iiei  -   ther     cup      nor 


co  -  pn, 
gob  -  let, 


Ni    en    que  dr.r-le     cl    agua  a      u  -  sted; 
Nor  wherein  to    give  wa- ter    to  your  lip; 


Pe-ro 
But  I 


I N 


-9-  -&- 


ten  -    po      mi        bo    - 
have    at      least     my 


qui  -    ta,  Con    el    -   la       se         la       da- 

month,  here,  From  that   I'll    give      you       a 


os,...        bon  -  i  -   ta;  — 
bye,. .       fair  girl  -  ie  ;  — 


lun-es        te  ven-go         a 
Mon-day    I'm  coming       to 


rit. 


ver, ...  O'     el     mar-tee 

see  you,       Or     ou    Tuesday 


226  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


SUZANITA. 


EL: 

Suzanita,  Suzanita, 

Senorita,  mande  V. 
Franqueeme  un  vaso  de  agua, 

Que  ya  me  abrazo  de  sed. 

ELLA  : 

Ni  tengo  vaso  ni  copa 

Ni  en  que  darle  el  agua  a"  V. 
Pero  tengo  mi  boquita — 

Con  ella  se  la  dare. 

EL: 

Adios,  Suzana  ! 

Y  adios  bonita  ! 
El  lunes  te  vengo  &  ver, 

O'  el  martes  de  mananita. 


Her  piecito  betrays  a  coquetry  unusual  in  a  maiden 
of  Spanish  blood,  and  his  a  practicality  not  always 
characteristic  of  the  lover.  The  song  may  be  taken 
to  say  in  English  : 

SUSIE. 

HE  : 

"Little  Susie,  little  Susie, 

Little  lady,  call  a  cup  ; 
Prithee  give  me  a  glass  of  water, 
For  with  thirst  I'm  burning  up." 

SHE  : 

"  Sir,  I've  neither  cup  nor  goblet 

Nor  wherein  to  put  water  to  your  lip  ; 
But  I  have  at  least  my  mouth  here — 
From  that  I  will  give  you  a  sip." 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


227 


HE 


"  Good-by,  my  Susie, 

And  good-by,  fair  girlie. 
On  Monday  I'm  coming  to  see  you, 
Or  on  Tuesday  bright  and  early." 

A  radically  different  view  of  the  tender  passion 
from  the  average,  is  that  taken  by  the  cynical  bard 
who  composed  "  La  Mentira."  His  identity  is  un- 
known, but  he  was  plainly  no  shepherd.  The  song 
is  beautiful — almost  classic— Spanish  verse  ;  and  no 
poet  need  have  been  ashamed  of  it.  There  can  be 
little  doubt  that  it  is  an  imported  song.  The  air  is 
very  characteristic. 


Con  moto. 


LA    MENTIRA. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 


La       vi    -  da      es      sue  -  flo.  el  por  -  ven-  ir     ment    i    -    ra ; 
Life's  a   dream,  the     f u  -  ture    but     a      ly  -  ing     vis  -  ion ; 


La  a  -  mis- 
As     for 


ti  -    ras    son    tam-bien   las       i    - 
lies     as    well    are     all      the    fond 


lu    -     sion  -  es 
il     -     lu  -   sions 


?.ue      ee 
mis- 


for  -    ja       del    -   ir    -    an  -   te  el      co    -     ra    -    zon. 
guid  -  ed     heart     is        con  -  j'ring    up         al    -     way. 


LA  MENTIRA. 

La  vida  es  suefio,  el  porvenir  mentira, 
La  amistad  y  el  amor  mentira  son  ; 

Y  mentiras  son  tambien  las  ilusiones 
Que  se  forja  delirante  el  corazon. 


\J 


228  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

Es  mentira  el  amor  de  las  mugeres, 
Y  mentira  su  belleza  y  su  desden, 

Y  mentira  el  "  te  adoro"  que  pronuncian, 
Y  sus  besos  mentiras  son  tambien. 

Son  mentiras  los  dulces  juramentos 
Que  pronuncian  sus  labios  de  carmin  ; 

Son  palabras  que  al  nacer  las  lleva  el  viento 
De  los  prados  £  los  bosques  del  confin. 

Es  la  espina  de  que  en  vuelto  va  el  veneno 
Con  que  halagan  su  malefico  querer  ; 

Con  que  matan  mestros  pobres  corazones — 
i  Cuan  malvada,  cuan  malvada  es  la  muger ! 


This  serious  arraignment,  which  is  vastly  enjoyed 
in  New  Mexico,  is  by  interpretation  as  follows : 


THE  LIE. 

Life's  a  dream,  the  future  but  a  lying  vision, 

As  for  friendship  and  for  love  mere  lies  are  theyj 

And  but  lies  as  well  are  all  the  fond  illusions 
The  misguided  heart  is  conjuring-up  alvvay. 

'Tis  a  lie,  this  love  the  women  all  are  feigning, 
And  a  lie  their  beauty  and  their  proud  disdain, 

And  a  lie  the  "  I  adore  thee  !"  that  they  murmur, 
And  their  very  kisses  are  a  lie  as  vain. 

They  are  lies — the  sweetest  vows  of  passion 

That  their  carmine  lips  breathe  tenderest  of  all ; 

They  are  words,  and  only  words  the  winds  shall  scatter 
Down  the  valley  like  the  dead  leaves  of  the  fall. 

Love  !   It  is  the  thorn  that  holds  the  hidden  poison 
Wherewithal  they  wreak  their  cruel  whims  and  blind ; 

Wherewithal  they  slay  our  trusting  hearts  forever — 
Ah,  that  wicked,  ah,  that  wicked  womankind  ! 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  229 

Songs  specifically  inter pocula  are  almost  unknown ; 
but  here  is  a  semi-drinking  song  with  love  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  cup  : 

EL    BOBRACHITO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 


h£:±a=x  -      :>H  1  ^—    -?--S  H-i  r=r- 

i^-^^J—  ?G--J—  J^—  '—  ^—  ^—  jH*--g- 

Al    bor  -  rach-i    -    to      to  -  d6     se    le       dis  -  pen  -  sa; 
The  fel  -  low  half-  seas  o'er  ev  -  'ry  one    ex.  •  cus  -  ee; 

—  y_J_.l—  J 

Cuan-do  an-da 
When  tight,  he's 

chis  -  po    no    con  -  o    -   ce     la     ver    -   guen  -  za. 
not     a  -  shamed  to  do     juet  what  he       choos  -  es. 

^^=^ 

Si    me  em  -  bor- 
If        I        get 

j£  rj  *    3  ~£~M  J-J  f—^-?-^—  i—  *-*»-*• 

=**=J  *~- 

rach  -  o     es     por  u   -  na    con  -  se    -   cuen  -  cia  — 
full,   the  on  -   ly    rea  -  son  for    my      booze    is— 

rit.  

To    do        lo 
All    on        ac- 

—  =j—  5  ^—  F 

[fa  —  *  —  -»—  «*  —  i  —  *  —  *—  tr-  ^~P 
%/                                                -*•      •*• 

cau  -   sa       la       pas  -  ion    deun-a        mu    -  ger. 
count    of       pas  -  sion    for       a      worn  •  an        fair. 

rf  —  s  —  -  —  H- 

EL  BORRACHITO. 

Al  borrachito  todo  se  le  dispensa, 
Cuando  anda  chispo  no  conoce  la  verguenza  ; 
Si  me  emborracho  es  por  una  consecuencia — 
Todo  lo  causa  la  pasion  de  una  muger. 

Amigo  Vino,  tu  me  tumbas  con  tu  aliento. 
Las  copas  llenas  onde  estdn  que  no  las  tiento  ? 
Si  me  emborracho,  es  de  puro  sentimiento 
Porque  no  me  ama  una  ingrata  muger. 

El  whisky  tomo  yo  por  apetito — 

Compro  mi  trago  si  me  hace  muy  poquito. 

Con  una  taza  de  tequila  mi  abuelito — 

Todo  lo  causa  la  pasion  de  una  muger. 

Or,  in  equivalent  English : 

THE  DRUNKEN  FELLOW. 
The  fellow  half-seas-over  everyone  excuses, 
When  tight  he's  not  ashamed  to  do  just  what  he  chooses. 


230  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

If  I  get  full,  the  only  reason  for  my  booze  is 

That  my  passion  for  a  woman  caused  it  all. 

Friend  Wine,  your  jolly,  jolly  breath  it  sends  me  reeling ! 
Where  are  the  full  cups  whose  red  kisses  I'd  be  stealing  ? 
If  I  get  drunk,  it's  purely  from  excess  of  feeling, 

Just  because  an  ungrateful  woman  loves  me  not. 

I  take  the  whisky  for  the  thirst  that  may  befall  one  ; 
I  buy  my  drink — which  seems  to  me  a  very  small  one, 
Like  my  grand-dad  with  his  glass  of  stuff— a  tall  one — • 
And  a  passion  for  a  woman  caused  it  all. 

The  provincial  use  of  diminutives  in  New  Mexico 
Spanish  is  striking,  and  seldom  preservable  in  trans- 
lation— unless  by  awkward  paraphrases.  Still,  it 
always  expresses  a  shade  of  meaning  which  is  not  to 
be  lost  sight  of.  The  borrackito,  for  instance,  is  not 
here  "the  little  man  who  is  drunk,"  but  "the  man 
who  is  a  little  drunk."  The  diminutive  termination 
serves  many  ends.  It  may  be  purely  diminutive,  as 
here  in  apetito,  "  a  little  appetite,"  or  merely  affec- 
tionate, as  here  in  abuelito,  u  my  little  grandpa  "  ;  or 
even  intensive  as  in  solito,  "all  alone v  —which  in 
New  Mexico,  is  so  much  more  emphatic  than  solo 
that  a  bright  senorita  once  rebuffed  me  for  saying  I 
had  made  a  certain  hard  journey  solito.  "What?" 
she  cried  ;  "a  man  goes  solo ;  but  a  coward  thinks 
he  is  solito!'  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  point  out 
numerous  other  provincialisms  of  New  Mexican 
Spanish — like  the  persistent  use  of  onde  for  donde— 
nor  the  frequent  ill-grammar,  except  in  cases  where 
the  sense  might  be  obscure  to  those  who  understand 
only  Castilian  Spanish.  As  for  my  translations,  I 
have  tried  to  get  the  exact  spirit  of  the  original  and 
to  make  the  English  as  good  but  no  better  verse. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


231 


One  of  the  most  popular  folk-songs  of  New  Mexico 
is  the  rollicking  "  Viejo,"  which  has  a  tinge  of  humor 
in  its  words,  as  well  as  a  taking  swing  in  its  measure. 


EL    VIEJO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 


To  -   dos     di    -   cen      que      soy      un       vi    -   c    -     jo, 
a       worth-less     old      fjl    -   low, 


They     all      say      I'm 


To       no 
But       I 


ae"  en    que    pe     pue  -  den    fun  -  dar, . . .    Yo    me  en-cuentro  tan  gor-do  y  ro- 
know  not    by    what  they   can    score,..     For     I      find  my-self   mer-ry    and 


bns  -  to  Qne    t-os     ve  -  ces    me     pue  -  do    cas  -  ar,  En     el 

mel-lovv,          And  quite  ilt       lor    three  mar  -  ii  -  ages    more.          How  the 


lad      held 


cl         jo  -  ven, 
the       cas  -  tie, 


Com  -ha  -  ti^n  -  do    con- 
Fight-ing     off     the     in- 


Tra      cl  in  -  vi    -    F-T.  Tan  -   to       san  -  rre  en  los      cam  -  pos      re- 

va.l  -  er        a    -    main.  Blush  ye      not,      ye         in  -   vad  -    cis      and 


ga  -   ba, 
trait-  ors, 


No     te      can  -  ?a      ver  -  jruen-za,     trai  -  dor  ? 
Thus  with  blood  to      be     wat  -  er  -    ing  Spain  ? 


EL  VlEJO. 

Todos  dicen  que  soy  un  viejo — 
Yo  no  se  en  que  se  pueden  fundar. 

Yo  me  encuentro  tan  gordo  y  robusto 
Cue  tres  veces  me  puedo  casar. 


Coro  :  En  el  morro  paseaba  el  jo  ven 

Combatiendo  contra  el  invasor. 
Tanto  sangre  en  los  campos  regaba, 
I  No  te  causa  verguenza,  traidor  ? 


232  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

Soy  un  viejo  de  noventa  anos, 

Los  cuento  desde  que  empeze  a  andar. 

Las  muchachas  me  niegan  los  besos, 
Y  conmigo  no  quieren  bailar  ! — Coro. 

Todos  dicen  !   "  hipocrito  viejo  !" 

Paque  en  misa  me  gusta  rezar, 
Y  en  el  baile  me  gusta  tener 

Una  novia  £  quien  apretar. 

In  English  it  is  difficult  to  render  this  as  cleverly. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

They  all  say  I'm  a  useless  old  fellow, 
But  I  know  not  by  what  they  can  score  ; 

For  I  find  myself  merry  and  mellow 
And  quite  fit  for  three  marriages  more. 


Chorus  :  How  the  lad  held  his  own  in  the  castle, 

Fighting  off  the  invader  amain  ! 
Blush  ye  not,  ye  invaders  and  traitors, 
Thus  with  blood  to  be  watering  Spain  ? 

I  am  old,  if  it's  old  to  be  ninety — 
Ninety  years  since  to  walk  I  began  ; 

Not  a  kiss  will  the  silly  girls  give  me, 

Not  a  dance  will  they  give  the  old  man ! — Chorus. 


"  You  old  hypocrite  !  "  everyone  tells  me, 
Just  because  at  the  ball  and  the  mass 

I  am  faithful  alike — I  love  praying, 
And  stepping  the  dance  with  a  lass. 

The  refrain  is  evidently  parasitic,  for  there  are  no 
castles  in  New  Mexico.  This  chorus — which  dates 
from  the  Moorish  wars — has  been  borrowed  from 
some  song  of  the  Mother  Country  and  tacked  to  the 
"  Viejo"  regardless  of  sense.  The  verses  and  the 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  233 

air,  however,  are  genuinely  New  Mexican,  so  far  as 
I  can  learn. 

Of  the  characteristic  mental  and  musical  processes 
of  the  undiluted  New  Mexican,  there  is  probably  no 
better  example  than  that  favorite  oddity,  the  Coyotito— 
the  little  coyote.  Its  stress  is  fairly  grotesque — as  is 
almost  the  rule  among  these  folk-songs.  Hardly 
ever  do  the  exigencies  of  the  measure  permit  all  the 
words  to  be  given  their  proper  accent.  Take  as  a 
fair  example  the  line  properly  pronounced  : 

Los  cuento  desde  que  empieze  anddr, 

which  is  and  must  be  sung 

Los  cuento*  desde  que  empieze  anddr. 

But  in  the  Coyotito  alone  do  I  remember  the  forcible 
splitting  of  a  word  in  twain  and  leaving  the  halves 
parted  by  the  impassable  gulf  of  a  full  rest — as  befalls 
in  the  first  line  of  every  verse  of  this  song,  and  more 
or  less  in  other  lines.  The  text  is  sly  and  unusually 
difficult  of  translation,  but  not  immoral.  The  ditty  is 
very  popular,  and  a  great  many  postscript  verses 
have  been  added  ;  but  the  apparent  original  will  suf- 
fice here. 

EL    COYOTITO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 

\ .__._j=s=      h      -|5-    m  -q~  j  K „     -j 

_fc i»     I— * — 


Cuan  -   do       sal    -    -    i       deHer-mo  -  sil    -     lo,       Lag    -  ri    -   mas 
When     I         part     -     ed        from    my      cit     .    y,        Tears    and      tears 


vin    -    e       llor  -    nn    -    do,  Y          con       la  flor       del     trom- 

I         came    a    -     cry    -    ing,  And      with     the  trum  -  pet  -  flower 


pil    -     lo         Me       ven    -     i      -     a          con    -    sol    -     an     -     do. 
pret  -    ty          To       com    -    fort       my  -    self         was        try     -     ing. 


234  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


EL  COYOTITO. 

Cuando  sail  de  Hermosillo,* 

Lcigrimas  vine  llorando, 
Y  con  la  flor  del  trompillo 

Me  venia  consolando. 

Yo  soy  como  el  coyotito 

Que  los  revuelco  y  los  dejo, 
Y  me  voy  al  trotecito 

Mirando  por  debajejo.\ 

Ya  se  cay<5  el  pino  verde 

Onde  habitan  los  pichones; 
Ya  cayo  el  que  andaba  ausente — 

Ahora  veran  pclones. 

Ya  se  cayd  el  jacalitot 

Onde  colgaba  mi  espada. 
Paque  es  tarito  laberinto 

Si  alcabo  todo  se  acaba. 

Ya  se  cayd  el  jacalito 

Onde  colgaba  mi  espejo. 
Debajo  del  roble  encinito 

Tendio  su  cama  un  conejo. 

Ya  se  seed  el  nopalito 

Onde  ibamos  a"  las  tunas. 
Ya  me  no  mas  anderas  celando 

Con  tus  celos  en  ayunas. 

Les  encargo  mis  amigos 

Que  si  ven  £  mi  querida, 
No  le  digan  que  estoy  preso — 

Porque  es  el  bien  di  me  vida. 

A  fair  English  equivalent  of  this  remarkable  ditty— 
so   thoroughly   a    folk-song    in    standpoint,  rhetoric, 

*  A  city  in  New  Mexico. 

f  A  diminutive  for  debajo  (below). 

\  A  little  jacal,  the  house  of  chinked  palisades. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  235 

rhyme,  and  non  sequiturs — is   perhaps  unattainable. 
The  nearest  I  can  come  is  this : 

THE  LITTLE  COYOTE. 

When  I  par-ted  from  my  city, 

Tears  and  tears  I  came  a-crying, 
And  with  the  trumpet-flower  pretty 

To  comfort  myself  was  trying. 

I  am  like  the  coyotito 

That  just  rolls  them  over  and  leaves  them, 
And  I  go  trotting  so  neat,  oh, 

My  downcast  glance  deceives  them. 

Fallen  is  al-ready  the  stately 

Pine  where  doves  perched  by  the  air-full. 

He  who  was  gone  has  happened  home  lately, 
And  the  short-haired  had  better  be  careful. 


Fallen  is  al-ready  the  humble 

Hut  where  my  sword  was  suspended  ; 
What's  the  use  of  fuss  and  of  grumble, 

If  all  things  at  last  are  ended  ? 


Fallen  is  al-ready  the  lonely 

Hut  where  my  mirror  was  peeping  ; 

And  in  the  oak-thickets  only 

The  rabbit  has  stretched  for  sleeping. 

Dried  is  now  the  prickly-pear  cooling 
That  we  both  hunted  when  younger  ; 

Now  me  no  more  wilt  thou  go  fooling 
With  thy  jealous  tricks  in  my  hunger. 

Friends,  I  charge  ye  all  unshaken, 
If  my  sweetheart  ye  be  seeing, 

Tell  her  not  that  I  have  been  taken, 
For  she  is  the  good  of  my  being. 


236 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


Scarcely  less  characteristic  in  its  way,  but  of  a  dif- 
ferent phase  of  New  Mexican  life — the  contact  of  the 
Saxon — is  the  curious  folk-song  of 


Allegro  moderate. 


EL    FEBROCABRIL. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 

m 


Alii     vi  -   en   -   e       el       fer  -  ro  -  car-   ril, 

The rail  -  road  is      com- ing    this     way,... 


Va  -  mos    a 

Let    us     go 


ver      on  -  de 
look    at     it 


'sta  ____ 
near... 


^__^ 

Ah!  que    gus  -  to      nos    da    -  ra  ____ 
Ah!  what    a      joy     it      will    be  ..... 


Cuan  -  do     lo      ve&  -  mos   ven  -  ir ! 
When  we    shall   see     it       ap  -  pear ! 


Lie  -   gan  -  do     la  e  -  mi  -  gra- 
And    when  the    tour-ists  shall 


cion,     "Good  morn- ing,"  re  -    pet  -  i    -     re, 
throng,  "  Good  morn  -  ing,"  I       will    re    -  peat, 


"  Come    in  !     come 
"  Come    in  !     come 


fit.. 


in!"  les      di   -   re,.... 
in  1 "  I'll     en  -  treat, . . 


"  Ven  -  gan     o  -   ir       mi     can  -  cion." 
"  Come  ye,    and    list      to      my     song." 


EL  FERROCARRIL. 

Alii  viene  el  ferrocarril, 

Vamos  in  ver  onde  'sta. 
j  Ah,  que  gusto  nos  dara 

Cuando  lo  veamos  venir  ! 

Coro  :  Llegando  la  emigracion, 

"  Good  morning,"  repetire  ; 
"  Come  in  !  Come  in  !  "  les  dire, 
Vengan  oir  mi  cancion. 

De  Chihuahua  Franquilin  * 

Corren  los  Americanos, 

Ganandoles  el  dinero 
A  todos  los  Mejicanos.  —  Coro. 

*  Franklin,  the  first  railroad  name  of  El  Paso. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  237 

Si  fueras  al  campamiento 

Onde  vienen  trabajando, 

Yo  asi  me  vivo  cantando 
Para  ganar  el  sostento. — Coro. 

Ni  el  sol  ni  el  viento  podra" 

Hacerme  retroceder  ; 

Millas  y  millas  correr, 
Para  ganar  nuestro  bien. — Coro. 

La  maquina  va  partir, 

Esten  toditos  alerta. 

Vayan  sacando  el  dinero 
Que  ya  vamos  a"  partir. — Coro. 

THE  RAILROAD. 

The  railroad  is  coming  this  way — 

Let  us  go  look  at  it  near. 

When  we  shall  see  it  appear, 
Ah,  what  a  joy  it  will  be. 

Chorus  :  And  when  the  tourists  shall  throng, 
"  Good  morning  !  "  I  will  repeat ; 
"Come  in  !  Come  in  !  "  I'll  entreat, 
"  Come  ye  and  list  to  my  song  !  " 

Up  from  the  town  on  the  line 

Come  running  the  Americanos, 

Earning  us  everyone  money — 
Money  for  all  \.\s  paisanos. — Chorus. 

Were  you  at  the  camp  where  they're  giving 

Work,  and  the  laborers  bringing — 

That's  just  the  way  I  live  singing 
Only  to  earn  me  a  living. — Chorus. 

Neither  sun,  neither  wind  shall  nor  could 

Make  me  turn  back  till  I've  done  ; 

Mile  after  mile  I  will  run 
That  I  may  win  us  some  good. — Chorus. 

The  engine  is  going  to  start. 

Lively  !  Be  all  of  you  ready  ! 

Come,  pull  your  money  out — steady, 
For  now  we  are  going  to  start ! — Chorus. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


An  attractive  song  which  has  become  rooted  in 
New  Mexico,  but  was  clearly  written  by  a  Sonoran, 
and  perhaps  in  Sonora,  is  the  "  Sonorefio."  It  is  the 
best  Mexican  version  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  that 
I  have  found. 

EL    SONORENO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN  HUSS. 

=-  piu  animalo. 

3*-f 


Vir  -  tien  -  do      la  -  gri  -  mas    tris  - 


==M|.rq fr^^-s . 

— «rfcg=izg_*=g:=3=z  ijcj 


y  a  -  mar  -  eras.      Pas  -  6       las 
With  sad   and    bit  -  ter  tears  and  thoughts  a-  wan  -  d'ring,      I    pass    the 


ho    -    ras      en        mi     men  -   te  a    -    qui ; 
hours    here    with    a      heart      for    -    lorn; 


No      es  -  toy     tran- 
No . . .         more     to 


qui  -  lo     en     los  dul  -  ces     ce  -   fi  -  ros     del  tris  -  te    val  -  le     don  -  de 
cheer  me  breathe  the  breez-es    soft  and  low     Of  that  poor  lit  -  t.e    vale  where 


na   -    ci. 
was     born. 


So  -  16     me  es  -  tor  -   ba    la  es  -  trucn  do  -   ea 
It     but      con  -  fus  -   es      me,     this   din       of 


mu   -   si   -    ca       que    va       to 
mu  -  sic    here    That  blares  on 


can    -    do      por        a   -    qui        all- 
ey   -    ery      street    both    night     and 


En      re    -   cor 
And  makes  me 


dar       del       si  -   len  -   cio    fun  -   e- 
miss    th'  sad  and   sol  -   emn    si   -  len- 


-•••     -,- 

Del  tris  -  te       val  -  lo    don  -de    yo  '    na  -  ci. 
Of    that  poor   lit  -  tie  vale  where  I     was  born. 

EL  SONORESO. 
Virtiendo  Mgrimas  tristes  y  amargas 

Paso  las  horas  en  mi  mente  aqui  ; 
No  estoy  tranquilo  en  los  dulces  zefiros 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  239 

Coro  :  Solo  me  estorba  la  estruendosa  musica 

Que  va  tocando  por  aqui  alii, 

En  recordar  del  silencio  funebre 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci. 

Aqui  se  miran  diferentes  fabricas 

Y  de  madera  que  no  conoci  ; 
Mas  no  las  cambio  por  aquellas  chozas 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci'. — Coro. 

Y  aqui  se  miran  mil  grupos  de  pajaros, 

Golillas  de  oro  y  alas  de  rubi  ; 
Mas  no  las  cambio  por  aquellas  tortolas 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci. — Coro. 

Y  aqui  se  miran  diferentes  flores 

Que  con  su  aroma  luego  me  dormi  ; 
Mas  no  las  cambio  por  la  flor  de  tuna 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci. — Coro. 

Y  aqui  se  ostentan  las  gillardas  jovenes 

Tan  coronadas  de  virtud  ye  alii, 
Mas  no  son  tiernas  como  aquellas  virgenes 

Del  triste  valle  donde  yo  naci. — Coro. 


THE  SONORAN  (EXILE). 

With  sad  and  bitter  tears  and  thoughts  a-wandering 
I  pass  the  hours  here  with  a  heart  forlorn  ; 

No  more  to  cheer  me  breathe  the  zephyrs  soft  and  low 
Of  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born. 

Chorus  :  It  but  confuses  me,  this  din  of  music  here, 

That  blares  on  every  street  both  night  and  morn, 
And  makes  me  miss  the  more  the  lonely,  deathly  hush 
Of  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born. 

Ah,  here  I  look  on  mansions  tall  and  grand — 
Such  homes  as  never  my  bare  land  adorn  ; 

But  for  them  all  I  would  not  give  one  hut  of  reeds 
In  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born. — Chorus. 


240  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

And  here  I  look  on  many  brilliant-feathered  birds 
With  throats  of  gold  and  wings  as  red  as  morn  ; 

But  for  them  all  I  would  not  give  the  turtle-doves 
Of  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born. — Chorus. 

And  here  I  look  on  many  a  rare  and  brilliant  flower, 
Whose  drowsy  perfume  makes  me  more  forlorn  ; 

But  for  them  all  I  would  not  give  the  cactus-flower 
Of  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born.  —  Chorus. 

And  here  are  brightest,  fairest  damsels  all  to  see, 
So  queenly  decked  with  all  that  can  adorn  ; 

But,  ah !  they  are  not  like  the  tender,  barefoot  maids 
Of  that  poor  little  vale  where  I  was  born  \~Chorus. 


A  quaint  little  song  of  the  Carbonero  purports  to 
have  been  composed  in  El  Pino,  a  tiny  hamlet  on  the 
edge  of  the  Navajo  Reservation,  on  the  verge  of  the 
greatest  coal-measures  in  New  Mexico.  But  while 
the  ditty  may  have  been  formulated  there,  and  even 
may  apply  to  the  peasant  diggers  of  coal,  it  is  alto- 
gether too  suggestive  of  Central  Mexico,  where  the 
charcoal-burner  is  a  part  of  the  landscape. 


Allegro  commodo. 


EL    CARBONERO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY   HOLDEN  HUSS. 


Ya       voy    ha  -  cer     una    ig  -   les     -    i    -    ta,     ma  -   ma,    De     pie- 
I  am      go  -  ing     to    build   me      a         chap  -  el,    mam  -  ma,     Of 


dri  -  ta       de     hor  -  mi  -  gue  -  ro,  Pa  -  ra      que     va  -  ya      a 

stone  that    the     ants   un  -    cov  -  er,  So       I       may    go     me     to 


mi  -  sa,     ma  -  ma,         Jun  -  to     con    mi      car  -  bon  -  e  -  ro. 
mass,.,    mam- ma,       Along  with  my    coal-raan     lov   -  er 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  241 


EL  CARBONERO. 

El  primer  amor  que  tengo,  Mama", 
Hd  de  ser  un  carbonero. 

Va  d.  vender  su  carbdn,  Mamd, 
Pero  gastando  dinero. 


Alii  viene  el  carbonero,  Mama, 
Bajando  por  la  cuchilla  ; 

Va  a"  vender  su  carbdn,  Mama, 
A  real  y  medio  la  quartilla. 

Alii  viene  el  carbonero,  Mama", 
Bajando  por  los  corrales  ; 

Va  sacudir  su  carbdn,  Mama", 
Pero  guardando  los  costales. 


Ya  voy  hacer  una  iglesita,  Mama", 
De  piedrita  de  hormiguero, 

Para  que  vaya  a"  misa,  Mama", 
Junto  con  mi  carbonero. 


Ya  voy  hacer  una  casita,  Mamd, 
De  piedrita  de  hormiguero, 

Para  vivir  alii  solita,  Mama", 
Junto  con  mi  carbonero. 


THE  CHARCOAL  MAN. 

The  very  first  sweetheart  I've  had,  Mamma, 
Has  to  work  at  charcoal-burning  ; 

He  has  to  go  selling  his  coals,  Mamma, 
But  bravely  spends  all  he's  earning. 


Ah,  yonder  he  comes,  my  coal-man,  Mamma, 
Descending  the  ridge  at  leisure  ; 

He's  selling  the  charcoal  he  made,  Mamma, 
At  a  dime  and  a  half  the  pint  measure. 

16 


242  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

Ah,  yonder  he  comes,  my  coal-man,  Mamma, 
Coming  on  down  by  the  stable  ; 

He's  going  to  shake  out  the  charcoal,  Mamma, 
But  saves  the  sacks  when  he's  able. 

I  am  going  to  build  me  a  chapel,  Mamma, 

Of  pebbles  the  ants  uncover, 
So  I  may  go  me  to  mass,  Mamma, 

Along  with  my  coal-man  lover. 

I  am  going  to  build  me  a  cottage,  Mamma, 

Of  pebbles  the  ants  uncover, 
So  as  to  live  there  alone,  Mamma, 
Along  with  my  coal-man  lover. 


This  is  rather  unusually  fanciful.  The  piedrita  de 
hormiguero  means  the  tiny  pebbles  on  the  ant-hills, 
which  in  that  locality  are  fragments  of  quartz  crystals, 
olivines,  and  an  occasional  Navajo  garnet.  A  chapel 
or  cottage  made  of  or  covered  with  these  would  be 
indeed  a  fairy-tale  in  the  land  of  the  adobe. 

Of  anything  like  ballads,  the  New  Mexicans  have 
very  few  specimens.  One  of  the  best  has  its  habitat 
in  the  remote  hamlet  of  Cerros  Cuates,  where  it  is 
sung  by  two  bird-voiced  little  girls.  Their  father  is  a 
jet  negro  to  whom  Spanish  is  the  native  tongue,  and 
who  does  not  know  a  word  of  English.  He  is  a 

o 

good  singer  and  plays  half  a  dozen  instruments  ;  and 
his  wife,  a  Mexican  woman  of  some  beauty,  has  an 
excellent  voice.  The  song  appears  to  have  come 
from  Sonora — for  the  gorrion  is  not  a  Ne\v  Mexican 
bird — but  has  taken  root  from  one  end  of  the  territory 
to  the  other.  It  has  a  dozen  verses  which  need  not  be 
reproduced  in  toto. 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  243 

LA   CALANDRIA. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN    HUSS. 


En        un  -    a       jau  -  la        de  o  -   ro,  Pen  -    dien  -  te    de  un  bal- 

All         in       a     cage    pure     gold  -  en,         Hung      in       a      bal  -  co- 


a       tris  -  te       ca    -    Ian  -  dria    Ho   -   ra  -   ba      su 


la  -   dy  -  lark   im  -   pns  -  oned    Was    cry  -  ing     to 


ny 


Bion.         Ay,     Dios !  no     hay    re    -    me   -   dio  ?  Ay,    Dios !  no     hay    pie- 
free.         Ay,      God !  is     there  no       pit    -    y  ?     Ay,    God !    is      no       re- 
dad  ?    Me     ro  -  bas     del     re  -   po  -  so,  y  a  -  dios  tran-  qui-  li  -  dad. 
dress?  Of    all     my    peace  thou  rob'st  me,  Good-bye    to     hap -pi -ness. 


LA  CALANDRIA. 

En  una  jaula  de  oro, 

Pendiente  de  un  balcon, 
Una  triste  caldndria 

Lloraba  su  prision. 

Coro  :  I  Ay  Dios,  no  hay  remedio  ? 

I  Ay  Dios,  no  hay  piedad? 
Me  robas  el  reposo, 
Y  adios  tranquilidad. 

Hasta  un  gorrioncito, 

Amoroso  la  hallo, 
Y  dijo  "  Mi  bonita, 

Te  quiero  mucho  yo." 

Y  luego  la  caldndria 

Le  dijo  y  le  jurd, 
((  Me  sacas  de  mi  prision, 

Me  voy  contigo  yo." 

The  finch  sets   to  work  with  wings  and  beak,  and 
soon  breaks  the  wires,  whereupon  the  ungrateful  lark 


244  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

flies  off.  He  pursues  and  overtakes  her,  but  she 
turns  upon  him  with,  "  Upon  my  faith  I  never  knew 
you,  and  never  was  a  prisoner."  The  poor  finch 
flies  back  very  sad,  enters  the  cage,  and  there  "weeps 
and  weeps  and  weeps.  But  soon  the  lark  repents  her 
treachery,  and  humbly  flies  back  to  say 

"  No  llores,  amigo  mio — 
Lo  que  paso  void," 

which  is  equivalent  to  saying,  "  Do  not  weep,  dear ; 
we'll  let  bygones  be  bygones "  —with  the  maidenly 
hint  that  she  is  now  his. 

THE  CALENDAR-LARK. 

All  in  a  cage  pure  golden, 

Hung  in  a  balcony, 
A  lady-lark  imprisoned 

Was  crying  to  be  free. 

Chorus  :  Ay,  God  !  is  there  no  pity  ? 
Ay,  God  !  is  no  redress  ? 
Of  all  my  peace  thou  robst  me, 
Good-by  to  happiness. 

Until  a  young  finch-gallant 

By  chance  a-passing  flew 
And  said,  "  My  little  beauty, 

I  love  you  much,  I  do  !  " — Chorus. 

And  straightway  then  the  larkling, 

She  promised  fair  and  true: 
"Oh,  take  me  from  my  prison, 

And  I  will  go  with  you  ! " 

A  very  different  ballad  equally  of  folk-song  rank, 
but  much  more  clever  in  motive  and  treatment,  is  a 
New  Mexican  version  of  "  Venus  and  Adonis."  Ve- 
nus is  much  less  ornate  but  much  more  modest  than 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 


245 


Shakespeare's ;  and  Adonis  a  less  rhetorical  and 
more  human  clown,  in  that  he  repents  at  the  eleventh 
hour. 


»  March  tempo. 


EL    PASTOR   TONTO. 

TRANSCRIBED  BY  HENRY  HOLDEN   HUSS. 


Un  -   a       nifia     en      un       bal-con...         Le       di    • 
In       a         bal  -   co  -   ny        a       dam-sel       Cried  out, 


-  ce       a 

Oh,    stay, 


un     pas-tor,  "  Es  -  pe  -  ra  ! 
to       a    shop-herd  star-ing, 


Que  a  -  qui    te   ha    -    bla    un-a    pa- 
?or...    here   a    ten    -    der   dove    be- 


lo    -    ma, 
speaks  you, 


Q 

W 


de      a 

is      for 


mor,  .  . 
love... 


se       des    -    -   es- 
and     you  cle- 


=£=• 


pe    -   ra.11 

spair  -  ing." 


"No 
"Oh, 


me 

you 


ha  -  bias     de       esa    ma  -  ne  -  ra," 
mustn't  speak  to      me     in      that    way, 


re  -  spon  -  di  -  6 
Re  -  plied...    the 


el       vil -Ian-  o       vil, 
dull     and  stu  -  pid    clown, 


Mi     ga- 
For     my 


nad  -  o    'eta    en  la  sier  -  ra.          Con  i\ 
flock   is    in      the  mountains,    With  it 


me  he  de  ir  a    dor-mir  " 
I  must  go  lay    me  down." 


EL  PASTOR  TONTO. 

Una  nina  en  un  balcon 

Le  dice  a"  un  pastor  "  Espera, 
Que  aqui  te  habla  una  paloma") 

Que  de  amor  se  desespera."J 


"  No  me  hables  de  esa  manera," 
Respondio*  el  villano  vil ; 

"  Mi  ganado  'sta  en  la  sierra,  ) 
Con  el  me  he  de  ir  d  dormir."J 


240  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

t(  Oyes,  pastor  tan  hermoso, 
Que  aqui  te  habla  una  paloma. 

Arrimate  por  aca"  ")       . 

Ni  haya  miedo  que  te  coma."  J 

"  Bien  estds  San  Pedro  en  Roma," 

Respondid  el  villano  vil, 
"  Mi  ganado  'st£  en  la  sierra, 


Con  el  me  he  de  ir  a"  dorinir."   r 

Then  follow  half  a  dozen  verses  of  allurements, 
the  "paloma"  offering  successively  a  pile  of  gold, 
three  vases  of  perfume,  a  flock  of  burros,  and  at  last 
her  own  beautiful  hair  as  a  bribe  to  the  paisano  excel- 
sior to  "  pause."  But  in  each  case  he  answers  "  Tu 
no  me  enredas  con  ellos"— "You  will  not  trap  me 
with  those  "  -  and  reiterates  his  intention  of  passing 
the  night  with  that  precious  flock.  In  the  next  to  the 
last  verse,  however,  he  suddenly  sees  a  great  light, 
and  for  the  first  time  gets  through  his  skull  that  love 
and  not  nonsense  is  calling.  He  apologizes  to  the 
"gran  senora"  and  trusts  he  has  not  offended.  But, 
not  altogether  unwomanlike,  she  has  no  more  patience 
for  such  a  stupid  winning,  and  turns  him  off  with  a 
couplet  which  is  as  gratifying  to  the  reader's  sense  of 
justice  as  it  must  have  been  to  her  pride: 

"  Cuando  quise,  no  quisistes, 
Y  ahora  que  quieres  no  quiero." 

"  When  I  would,  thou  vvouldst  not  ; 
And  now  when  thou  wouldst,  I  will  not." 

THE  STUPID  SHEPHERD. 

In  a  balcony  a  pretty  damsel 

Cried  out,  "  Oh,  stay  !  "  to  a  shepherd  staring, 
"  For  here  a  tender  dove  bespeaks  you        ) 
Who  is  for  love  and  you  despairing."   ) 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  247 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  speak  to  me  in  that  way  !  " 

Replied  the  dull  and  stupid  clown  ; 
"  For  my  flock  is  in  the  mountains,  ) 

With  it  I  have  to  go  and  lay  me  down."  ) 


"  Listen,  shepherd,  tall  and  handsome, 
For  here  a  tender  dove  doth  greet  you  ; 

Come  nigh,  and  don't  be  acting 
As  if  afraid  that  I  might  eat  you, 


"  I  wouldn't  care  'f  you  were  St.  Peter 
In  Rome,"  replied  the  foolish  clown  ; 
"  For  my  flock  is  in  the  mountains, 


And  there  I  must  go  lay  me  down."  j      ts' 

It  is  not  surprising  that  amid  the  folk-songs  of  New 
Mexico  are  none  descriptive  of  the  life  led  by  so  large 
a  proportion  of  the  men — that  of  the  shepherd — and 
none  more  closely  alluding  to  it  than  the  Pastor  Tonto. 
Its  realities  are  ever  present,  and  the  singer  is  glad 
enough  to  forget  them,  at  least  while  he  sings,  and 
turn  to  more  alluring  subjects.  But  one  would  expect 
to  find  songs  relative  to  the  saddle — in  which  most 
New  Mexicans  are  proficient — the  guitar,  the  dance, 
and,  above  all,  the  cigarette.  Everyone  smokes ; 
and  yet  I  think  it  is  safe  to  say  that  there  is  not  one 
indigenous  folk-song  in  the  Southwest  about  the 
soothing  cigarro.  There  is  one  Spanish  song  plac- 
ing the  weed  above  love  and  other  luxuries,  which 
may  now  be  heard  in  hundreds  of  New  Mexican 
homes  throughout  the  territory.  But  lest  any  later 
student  in  the  field  be  deceived  by  coming  across  this 
song,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  I  wrote  it  myself  in  1889, 
to  please  my  paisano  friends  in  return  for  their  pa- 
tience in  teaching  me  real  songs  of  the  soil,  and  that 
it  has  been  welcomed  and  adopted  into  their  reper- 
tories. 


248  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

Besides  the  folk-songs,  of  which  I  have  tried  to 
give  a  fair  idea  by  these  types  from  among  thou- 
sands, there  are  vast  quantities  of  dichos,  or  epigram- 
matic verses,  proverbial  rhymes,  and  the  like.  Nearly 
everyone  at  some  time  has  made  a  dicho ;  and  the 
fittest  survive.  Of  the  simplest  form  are  such 
verses  as : 

Mucho  me  gusta  el  queso,* 

El  queso  de  mi  rancho. 
Mas  me  gusta  un  beso 

De  los  del  sombrero  ancho. 

Much  I  fancy  cheese  like  this — 

The  cheese  from  my  rancho  fat. 
But  more  I  fancy  a  stolen  kiss 

From  those  of  the  broad-brimmed  hat. 

Or  this : 

Ojos  amables, 

Color  de  cafe, 
Deme  un  beso 

De  buena  fe. 

Lovable  eyes 

Of  coffee  hue, 
Give  me  a  kiss 

Of  faith  all  true. 

Of  the  more  epigrammatic  form  one  popular  dicho 
will  suffice : 

Las  negras  son  de  oro, 

Las  triguefias  son  de  plata, 
Las  gueras  no  mas  de  cobre, 

Y  las  blancas  de  oja  de  lata. 

Dark  women  are  good  as  gold  ; 

Brunettes  like  silver  win  ; 
The  blondes  are  only  copper, 

And  the  light  ones  only  tin. 

*  This  seems  to  have  been  taken  from  a  Sonoran  folk-song,  "La  Gorra" 


NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS  249 

Another  version  says  *  : 

Las  Morenas  hiso  Dios, 

A  las  blancas  un  platero, 
Las  triguerias  hiso  un  sastre 

Y  a"  las  negras  un  zapatero. 

»  God  made  the  swarthy  women  ; 

A  silversmith  the  white  ones  ; 
The  dark  brunettes,  a  tailor  ; 

A  cobbler  the  black-as-night  ones. 

As   an    example    of  the    moral    philosophy  of  the 
maker  of  dichos,  we  may  take  the  following : 

No  hay  mas  amigo  que  Dios, 

Esto  es  claro  y  evidente  ; 
Que  el  mas  amigo  es  traidor, 

Y  el  mas  verdadero  miente. 

There  is  no  better  friend  than  God, 

This  is  clear  and  past  denying  ; 
For  the  dearest  may  betray, 

The  most  truthful  may  be  lying. 

A  disquieting  thought,  which  has  found  expression 
in  many  languages,  marks  this  popular  dicho : 

Boquita  de  coral  fino, 

Labios  de  azucar  ingles, 
Boquita  de  piloncillo — 

I  Ouien  te  besara"  otra  vez  ? 

Little  mouth  of  coral  fine, 

Lips  of  store-bought  sugar,  this  you 

Make  me  wonder,  little  mouth — 
Who  will  be  the  next  to  kiss  you  ? 

*  In  these  songs  I  have  frequently  used  accents  to  indicate  the  stress  which 
requires  many  words  to  be  sung  with  an  entirely  wrong  accent. 


250  NEW  MEXICAN  FOLK-SONGS 

A  decidedly  dainty  fancy,  though  clad  in  homespun, 
is  this : 

Suspiros  que  de  aqui  salen, 

Y  otros  que  de  alia"  vendran, 
Si  en  el  camino  se  encuentran, 

Que  de  cosas  no  se  diran. 

My  sighs,  that  go  and  leave  me  here, 
And  yours  from  yonder  stealing  out — 

If  on  the  road  they  chance  to  meet, 
How  many  things  they'll  talk  about ! 


X 

A  DAY  OF  THE  SAINTS 


A  DAY  OF  THE  SAINTS 


nPHERE  is  hardly  to  be  seen  within  the  range  of 
1  practicable  travel  a  sight  more  picturesque  or 
more  stirring  than  that  of  a  saint's  day  in  a  Pueblo 
town.  Each  pueblo  has  its  patron  saint  in  the  Catholic 
Church,  to  whose  honor  the  appropriate  day  of  the 
calendar  is  set  apart ;  and  with  the  unhypocritical 
duplicity  of  these  quaint  folk  it  is  always  contrived  to 
do  homage  to  the  santo  and  to  all  the  pagan  Trues 
at  one  fell  swoop.  The  cachinas  or  sacred  dances 
which  were  in  vogue  before  Columbus,  still  survive ; 
but  now  they  are  applied  to  the  festivals  of  the 
church,  and  are  presumed  to  be  as  grateful  to  Tata 
Dios  as  to  the  Sun-Father  and  the  Hero  Twins. 
That  is,  the  unobjectionable  ones.  There  were  many 
which  had  to  be  sternly  suppressed  ;  for  the  aborig- 
inal theology,  with  its  corner-stone  of  sex,  had  many 
features  which  could  hardly  be  brought  to  church. 
They  were  not  vile,  for  they  were  sincerely  religious, 
but  under  our  different  standards  of  what  may  and 
what  may  not  be  paraded,  they  would  seem  highly 
indecorous. 

But  of  entirely  "  proper"  cachinas  enough  remain 
to  furnish  forth  appropriately  every  saint's  day  in  the 
long  calendar.  Of  such  a  fiesta,  the  dance  of  the 
Ayash-tyiicotz  in  Cochiti  is  a  fair  type.  I  shall  speak 


254  A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS 

of  it  here  only  from  its  popularly  visible  side,  without 
attempting  to  present  its  scientific  significance  and 
details. 

The  great  feast  of  San  Buena  Ventura  de  Cochiti 
— the  full  name  of  the  pueblo  whose  known  wander- 
ings have  already  been  traced — falls  on  July  i4th,  the 
calendar  day  of  its  patron  San  Buena  Ventura. 

Cochiti,  as  it  is  ordinarily  called  for  short,  lies  on 
the  gravel  mesa  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
twenty-five  miles  southwest  of  Santa  Fe.  It  is  one  of 
the  smallest  of  the  pueblos,  and  one  of  the  least  strik- 
ing ;  but  it  gets  up  a  dance  that  would  do  no  dis- 
credit to  any  of  them.  It  belongs  to  the  Queres 
group  of  pueblos,  in  which  are  also  included  the 
towns  of  Santa  Ana,  San  Felipe,  Santo  Domingo, 
Acoma,  Zia,  and  Laguna.  These  seven  speak  the 
same  language  ;  while  all  around  are  others  whose 
tongues  are  radically  different.  In  the  old  mission 
days  the  population  of  Cochiti  was  656,  but  to-day  it 
must  be  a  scant  200.  It  has  plenty  of  fine  farming 
land,  well  cultivated,  and  is  well-to-do  in  the  matter 
of  herds  and  grazing  lands. 

Driving  down  over  the  hot  plains  from  Santa  Fe, 
bumping  down  the  hideous  La  Bajada — a  great  lava 
hill;  almost  a  precipice — one  comes  at  length  to  the 
jumping-off  place  of  the  river  mesas,  and  looks  upon 
the  lovely  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande.  It  would  be  a 
beautiful  sight  anywhere  ;  and  doubly  beautiful  it  is 
in  this  bare,  brown  country,  whose  broad  bosom 
shows  the  stranger  little  of  its  fertile  possibilities. 
On  the  west  the  broken  mass  of  the  noble  Valles 
range  climbs  the  sky,  and  from  a  gap  in  its  foothills 
issues  the  silver  ribbon  of  the  finest  river  in  New 


^ 


A    DAY    OK   THE   SAINTS,  ACOMA.— T1IK    PROCESSION. 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  257 

Mexico.  Between  scalloped  mesas  it  winds  its  way 
to  the  south  in  a  broad  belt  of  green,  patched  numer- 
ously with  the  waving1  yellow  of  ripe  wheat  and  dotted 
with  noble  trees  as  those  that  grace  the  intervales  of 
the  Connecticut. 

At  our  feet  the  quaint  little  Mexican  plaza  of  Pefia 
Blanca  nestles  amid  its  huge  cottonwoods ;  and 
across  the  rippling  river  the  morning  sun  shines 
bright  upon  the  front  of  the  mission  church  of  Co- 
chiti,  whitewashed  for  the  occasion,  and  upon  the 
scattered  brown  adobes  of  the  town. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  feast — "  early  "  in  a 
Mexican  town  means  9  A.M. — heavy  farm  wagons, 
loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  patsanos,  begin  to  rumble 
along  the  one  straggling  street  of  Pena  Blanca, 
headed  Cochitiward.  The  men  driving  are  in  black 
suits  and  shirt-sleeves ;  the  female  contingent,  seated 
in  the  wagon-bed  upon  straw,  are  in  spotless  and 
flappy  white,  and  shaded  as  to  their  faces  by  more  or 
less  kaleidoscopic  hats  and  parasols.  A  New  Mexi- 
can girl,  who  is  pretty  at  home  in  the  simple  dignity 
of  a  single  calico  dress,  is  a  sight  for  gods  and  men 
when  arrayed  for  a  fiesta.  The  fit  of  her  dress  is 
fairly  epileptic. 

Joining  the  intermittent  procession,  we  dare  the 
ticklish  ford — the  Rio  Grande  is  always  a  treacherous 
river  to  cross — and  are  soon  climbing  from  the  fertile 
bottom  to  the  low  gravel  bench  upon  which  the  rather 
rambling  town  is  built. 

A  little  above  the  ford,  and  hidden  from  its  public- 
ity by  a  bend  in  the  river,  is  a  quiet  pool  whither  the 
women  repair  with  their  water-jars  and  babes  ;  and 
here  this  morning  is  a  picture  as  Arcadian  as  shall 
17 


258  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

well  be  found.  There  is  no  more  modest  people  than 
this;  but  children  hardly  "count,"  and  the  bare- 
breeked  tots  are  everywhere,  crowing  and  bedimpled. 
Here  at  the  watering  pool,  youngsters  from  three  to 
twelve  doff  their  simple  garments  and  tumble  into 
the  river,  boys  and  girls  together,  and  romp  and 
swim  and  splash  in  infinite  innocent  mirth.  Perfect 
little  ducks  they  are,  apparently  as  much  at  home  in 
the  water  as  ashore.  Mothers  hold  four-months-old 
babes  off  shore,  chin-deep  in  the  eddies  ;  and  the  fat 
brownies  chuckle  and  squeal  with  glee.  Maidens  of 
sixteen,  comely  of  face  and  superb  in  figure,  throw 
off  their  head-shawls  and  heavy  manias,  unwind  their 
buckskin  "boots,"  and  in  the  clinging  camisa  plunge 
in  with  girlish  shrieks.  Staid  matrons  do  likewise,  or 
wade  out  knee-deep  and  stand  there  washing  their 
skirts.  Here  the  Milonian  Venus  might  find  a  dozen 
sisters — such  noble  forms  as  were  before  the  mon- 
strosity of  "civilized"  dress. 

There  is  not  a  suggestive  word  or  motion — all  is 
the  simplicity  of  Eden  before  the  snake.  And  when 
they  have  swum  and  splashed  and  frolicked  to  their 
hearts'  content,  the  comely  bathers  run  ashore  and 
don  the  discarded  garments,  and  poise  the  brimming 
water-jars  on  confident  heads,  and  march  up  the  steep 
path  homeward,  while  new  relays  come  to  take  their 
places. 

All  is  gay  in  the  pueblo.  Bustle  is  a  word  which 
hardly  applies  to  anything  New  Mexican,  but  every- 
one is  moving  in  that  sedate  and  leisurely  fashion 
which  is  el  costumbre  del  pais.  Now  and  then  a 
Mexican  visitor  goes  galloping  break-neckfully  about 
the  town,  but  the  Pueblos  are  gathered  in  gay-colored 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  259 

groups  around  the  houses,  or  sauntering  soberly 
across  the  open  spaces.  Pueblos  from  Santo  Do- 
mingo, San  Felipe,  Isleta,  San  Juan,  Nambe,  Tesu- 
que,  Pojoaque,  and  even  distant  Acoma ;  Navajos 
from  the  western  end  of  the  Territory,  half  a  dozen 
"  Americans,"  and  forty  or  fifty  neighboring  Mexicans 
are  among  the  crowd. 

A  sudden  burst  of  putative  music  and  a  general 
rush  of  horse  and  foot,  call  us  to  a  little  level  place  in 
front  of  the  quaint  balconied  church.  The  whole  popu- 
lation is  there,  and  all  the  visitors.  Two  hundred 
mounted  Pueblos,  aligned  as  perfectly  as  a  crack 
cavalry  regiment  on  parade,  form  three  sides  of  a  hol- 
low square.  The  fourth  side  is  the  high  wall  of  the 
old  churchyard,  now  buried  under  a  drift  of  expectant 
humanity.  Close  by  the  cross  over  the  gate  are  the 
long,  faded  robe  and  the  beautiful,  classic  face  of  the 
priest  from  Pefta  Blanca,  whose  delicately  chiselled 
Gallic  features  look  anachronistic  enough  among 
those  swarthy  proselytes.  He  has  held  morning  mass 
in  the  old  church,  and  now  the  first  dance  of  the  day 
is  to  be  el  baile  del  padre,  in  his  honor. 

There  is  not  long  to  wait.  Directly  the  pum  !  pum  ! 
pum  !  of  a  huge  yellow  tombt,  big  as  a  mature  beer- 
barrel,  sounds  around  the  corner  of  the  church,  pres- 
ently followed  by  the  tombe  itself  and  its  athletic  per- 
secutor. Around  the  drummer  cluster  the  chorus — a 
dozen  men  in  snowy  shirts  and  with  snowy  drawers 
descending  into  the  embrace  of  beautiful  brown  buck- 
skin leggins  which  also  cover  the  tops  of  their  moc- 
casins. They  chant  loudly  a  weird  refrain  in  the 
Queres  tongue,  keeping  perfect  time  with  feet  and 
arms.  They  are  closely  followed  by  the  dancers — a 


260  A    DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

strange  and  grotesque  half  hundred,  truly.  At  their 
head  marches  the  bearer  of  the  holy  Flag  of  the  Sun. 
He  is  a  stalwart  aborigine  clothed  upon  with  all  pomp 
and  circumstance.  The  banner  is  a  priceless  bit  of 
work  in  beaded  buckskin,  bearing,  with  its  pole,  the 
general  shape  of  a  gigantic  feather,  and  fringed  and 
tufted  at  sides  and  top  with  eagle  feathers.  The 
dancers  are  equally  divided  as  to  sex,  and  an  attrac- 
tive set  in  face  and  form.  The  women  wear  their 
usual  modest  dress  to  the  knees,  but  have  omitted 
their  every-day  buckskin  boots  and  moccasins,  and 
their  shapely  shins  and  arms  are  bare.  Their  beau- 
tiful black  hair,  carefully  combed,  hangs  down  their 
backs,  unrestrained  by  ribbon  or  ornament.  Around 
their  necks  they  wear  a  dazzling  profusion  of  neck- 
laces. Costly  corals,  silver  beads  alternating  with 
silver  crosses,  and  long  strings  of  priceless  turquoise, 
are  a  dozen  strands  deep  on  those  pretty  brown 
necks.  Their  heavy  jet  bangs  wave  as  they  come 
hopping  along  on  alternate  feet.  Each  has  a  bright 
vermilion  patch  on  either  cheek-bone,  and  each  holds 
in  either  hand  a  sprig  of  sacred  cedar.  But  the  most 
remarkable  feature  of  the  female  garb  is  the  head- 
dress. Over  the  middle  of  her  crown  each  woman 
wears  a  board,  fitted  to  her  head,  and  rising  eighteen 
inches  above  it.  This  board  is  bright  green,  with  an 
ornamental  top  and  a  capital  T  sawed  out  of  the 
middle.  The  projections  at  the  top  of  the  board  are 
prettily  tufted.  The  women  are  all  young  and  come- 
ly, and  extremely  modest  in  demeanor — as  Pueblo 
women  always  are. 

The    men  are  more   picturesquely  arrayed.     Each 
is  naked  to  the  waist,  and  painted  over  the  trunk  and 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  263 

arms  with  a  dull  blue.  Around  the  waist  and  falling 
nearly  to  the  knees,  is  an  elaborate  dancing-skirt 
woven  of  mouse-colored  stuff,  handsomely  decked 
with  bead  work,  and  with  a  curious  corded  sash  pen- 
dent on  the  right  side.  To  this  skirt,  behind,  is  at- 
tached a  beautiful  fox  skin,  with  its  long  brush  dang- 
ling nearly  to  the  ground.  The  moccasins  and  leg- 
gins  complete  the  dress,  but  there  are  further  acces- 
sories. Each  man  has  fastened  to  the  top  of  his  head 
a  little  bunch  of  feathers  or  a  sprig  of  cedar  ;  each  has 
around  his  biceps  a  four-inch  armlet  of  buckskin 
painted  green  and  white,  and  several  skeins  of  bright 
yarn  and  strings  of  sleigh-bells  are  tied  around  the 
leggins  just  below  the  knee.  None  of  them  wear  face 
paint,  none  have  the  customary  headkerchief  or  cue, 
nor  the  every-day  white  cotton  drawers.  Each  holds 
in  his  left  hand  a  branch  of  evergreen,  and  in  his  right 
a  rattle  made  of  a  dry  gourd,  with  a  wooden  handle. 
Over  their  bare  chests  rattle  beads  only  less  prodigal 
than  those  worn  by  the  women.  The  men  are  all 
young  or  youngish  and,  as  a  rule,  very  good-looking 
fellows.  At  the  rear  the  procession  tapers  down  to 
half  a  dozen  boys  and  girls,  the  smallest  not  over  four 
years  old,  but  dressed  just  like  their  elders,  and  equally 
expert  in  the  intricacies  of  the  curious  dance. 

When  the  fifty  dancers  are  all  inside  the  square,  in 
a  long  row  by  pairs — first  two  women  and  then  two 
men — they  cease  their  advance,  which  has  been  made 
at  a  madding  pace  of  a  half  a  mile  per  hour,  but  con- 
tinue to  "mark  time,"  to  the  unfaltering  bump  of  the 
yellow  drum  and  the  long-winded  sing-song  of  the 
chorus.  The  step,  whether  advancing,  retreating,  or 
standing  still,  is  the  same — a  simple  variation  of  the 


264  A    DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

universal  hop-jump  remembered  by  everyone  who  has 
ever  seen  an  aboriginal  dance.  Starting  on  tiptoe, 
the  dancer  raises  his  right  foot  quickly  to  a  height  of 
from  three  to  six  inches  above  the  ground,  at  the  same 
time  — or  perhaps  an  instant  later — giving  a  tiny  hop, 
which  lifts  the  left  foot  high  enough  to  put  a  tooth- 
pick between  it  and  the  ground.  This  hitch  is  almost 
imperceptible  in  itself,  but  it  is  never  omitted,  and 
makes  a  notable  impression  upon  the  character  of  the 
step  as  a  whole.  Then  the  right  foot  goes  down  in  a 
similar  hyphenated  fashion,  and  the  left  foot  up,  and 
so  on.  The  soft  pat  of  the  moccasined  feet  of  the 
men  and  the  bare  soles  of  the  women  are  audible 
only  in  the  aggregate. 

After  a  little  marching  and  countermarching  around 
the  space  reserved  for  them,  the  dancers  again  come 
down  to  the  footlights — so  to  speak— and,  by  a  quick 
turn,  form  in  four  parallel  rows,  facing  outward.  In 
the  centre  are  the  two  rows  of  women,  and  on  each 
side  a  row  of  men.  In  this  position  they  dance  in 
mark-time  fashion,  moving  their  arms  up  and  down 
alternately  with  their  legs.  The  men  use  their  rattles 
meantime,  each  at  stated  intervals  thrusting  his  right 
arm  out  sharply  from  the  shoulder  and  giving  at  the 
same  time  a  loud  "  Ay  !  ay  !  "  All  sway  their  bodies 
from  side  to  side,  also,  in  graceful  wise.  The  time 
kept  by  all  is  absolutely  faultless,  and  the  figures  re- 
mind one  of  a  Virginia  reel.  Up  and  down  between 
the  open  lines  of  the  dancers  gambol  the  entremiseros 
or  k6- ska-re,  three  tall,  erect  fellows,  who  are  the 
most  important  characters  of  the  day.  They  are 
naked  save  for  their  G-string  and  various  charmed 
knots  bound  about  knees  and  arms ;  and  covered 


A    DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  265 

from  toe  to  topknot  with  a  film  of  yeso — a  bluish- 
white  clay.  Upon  this  light  ground  are  drawn 
zigzag  lightnings  and  other  figures  in  black.  The 
eyes  are  surrounded  by  four-inch  "  spectacles "  of 
paint.  Their  long  hair  is  drawn  into  a  thick  wad 
over  each  ear,  standing  out  horizontally  ;  while  an 
equal  wisp  of  shredded  corn-husks,  woven  at  right 
angles,  bristles  on  the  perpendicular.  Other  wisps  of 
corn-husk  are  bound  to  their  ankles,  along  with 
dangling  shells  of  the  sacred  tortoise  and  bony  sheep- 
trotters.  These  are  the  official  clowns — the  potent 
Delight-Makers  ;  and  many  a  note  of  approbation  is 
called  out  by  their  fantastic  monkey-shines. 

After  this  sort  of  thing  has  gone  on  for  half  an  hour, 
the  standard-bearer  gives  the  word,  the  tombe  receives 
an  accelerated  drubbing  and  the  squad  of  dancers, 
doubling  on  itself,  dances  inchingly  out  of  the  square 
and  disappears  around  the  corner  of  the  church.  At 
once  a  new  tombc — this  time  a  gay  green  one — as- 
serts itself;  and  in  a  moment  more  another  half  hun- 
dred dancers  are  filing  in,  headed  by  the  self-same 
drum-major  and  pranced  about  by  the  self-same  en- 
tremiseros.  The  only  difference  between  this  squad 
and  the  first  is  that  the  women's  head-dresses  in  this 
are  arched  at  the  top,  while  in  the  first  they  were  ser- 
rate. The  newcomers  dance  half  an  hour  and  then 
make  way  again  for  their  predecessors. 

After  the  first  company  has  finished  its  second 
dance  the  drum  gives  another  rattle,  and  the  crowd 
breaks  for  the  plaza,  or  public  square,  followed  by  the 
deliberate  dancers.  This  square  is  some  two  hun- 
dred feet  on  a  side,  shut  in  by  the  quaint  adobe 
houses,  and  with  alleys  running  out  at  each  corner. 


266  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

The  space  enclosed  slopes  gently  to  the  centre,  where 
a  pool  of  rain-water,  some  forty  feet  in  diameter,  has 
formed  from  a  summer  shower.  Against  a  preten- 
tious and  somewhat  Mexicanized  house  on  the  south 
side  of  the  plaza  is  built  a  big,  rude  booth  of  cedar  ; 
and  in  this,  guarded  by  two  small  boys  with  venera- 
ble muskets,  presides  the  gracious  lady  of  the  day, 
San  Buena  Ventura,  in  paint  and  plaster.  She  stands 
on  a  rough  hand-barrow,  on  whose  handles  numerous 
candles  flare  in  the  rising  wind.  Close  by  this  out- 
door shrine  are  the  fakirs  of  the  day — two  Mexicans 
with  a  tub  of  alleged  lemonade,  and  a  Santo  Domingo 
Indian  with  a  big  box  of  apricots  the  size  and  flavor 
of  a  musty  dried  prune.  Neither  of  them  do  much 
business,  except  with  the  visiting  Mexicans.  The 
natives  have  dry-prune  apricots  of  their  own,  which 
they  munch  with  white  teeth  and  an  air  of  content- 
ment ;  and  very  few  of  them  are  caught  by  the 
lemonade  swindle. 

Upon  every  housetop  around  the  square  are  pict- 
uresque groups  in  all  the  gayety  of  color  and  lavish- 
ness  of  ornament  peculiar  to  this  strange  race.  Co- 
chiti  is  a  flat  pueblo.  It  has  very  few  two-storied 
(terraced)  houses,  and  is  almost  entirely  composed  of 
one-storied  adobes — in  marked  contrast  to  the  finer 
pueblos.  But  whether  two  stories  or  only  one,  the  roofs 
are  all  well  occupied  now.  Along  the  north  side  of 
the  plaza  are  gathered  most  of  the  horsemen  who  had 
watched  the  former  dance.  The  most  striking  thing 
about  the  group  to  one  familiar  with  this  country  is 
the  wonderful  display  of  fine  Navajo  blankets.  Cheap 
blankets  of  that  make  are  common  enough,  but  fine 
ones  are  becoming  very  rare.  There  are  twenty-five 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  267 

here  worth  $50  apiece,  forty  worth  $25  apiece,  and 
thirty-five  averaging  $15  apiece.  Here,  then,  are 
one  hundred  Pueblos  whose  blankets  alone  are  worth 
nearly  $3,000,  not  to  mention  their  fine  horses,  their 
bridles  buried  in  solid  silver,  and  their  scores  of 
pounds  of  silver,  coral,  and  turquoise  ornaments. 

The  dancing  is  still  done  by  relays,  only  one  of  the 
two  companies  occupying  the  plaza  at  the  same  time. 
With  the  same  hair-breadth  step  the  performers  keep 
inching  round  and  round  the  central  pool  ;  and  when 
they  are  tired,  inch  out  by  the  northeast  alley,  while 
their  relief  inches  in  by  the  southeast — to  which  the 
relieved  soon  march  around  (outside  the  houses)  and 
wait  for  their  turn  to  come  again. 

But  while  the  dancers  are  going  through  the  same 
programme,  the  entremiseros  are  having  a  deal  more 
fun.  The  new-formed  puddle  is  a  special  dispensa- 
tion in  their  behalf.  The  first  one  to  "  take  a  tum- 
ble "  (slangily,  but  literally  speaking)  is  the  tallest  of 
them,  a  fine  sinewy  specimen  of  manhood,  whose  tal- 
ents as  a  clown  would  give  him  a  good  engagement 
with  any  wide-awake  circus.  Calling  attention  to 
himself  by  a  wild  "eyoop!"  and  some  grotesque 
capers,  he  rushes  into  the  middle  of  the  pool,  whirls 
around  and  throws  himself  full  length  into  the  water, 
face  down.  As  his  garb  is  the  reductio  ad  absurdum, 
and  the  mercury  aspires,  he  is  doubtless  very  com- 
fortable. His  wrigglings,  contortions,  and  antics  in 
that  puddle  keep  every  one  on  a  grin  except  the 
dancers ;  and  they  would  not  laugh  for  the  world. 
The  preternatural  solemnity  of  their  faces  never 
leaves  them  for  an  instant  during  the  day.  He  lies  on 
his  back  awhile,  and  then  flops  over  upon  his  face ; 


268  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

» 

then  he  gets  up  and  ambles  around  with  an  inimitable 
stage  trot ;  then  he  pretends  to  stub  his  toe,  and  falls 
with  the  easy  all-overness  affected  by  the  padded 
roller-skate  caricature  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  cir- 
cus-going small  boy  ;  then  he  kneels  and  keeps  duck- 
ing his  face  into  the  water,  his  wet  hair  and  its  bris- 
tling appendage  flapping  back  and  forth  in  ludicrous 
harmony.  Finally  one  of  the  other  Delight- Makers — 
the  third  having  retired — declines  to  miss  the  fun  any 
longer,  and  he,  too,  tumbles  into  the  pool.  Then  the 
sport  is  doubled.  Such  a  laughable  battle — a  queer 
mixture  of  clownishness  and  childishness — as  ensues  ! 
Number  one  grapples  with  number  two,  and,  after  a 
fierce  wrestle,  downs  and  sits  upon  him.  They  roll 
each  other  over,  splash  water  in  each  other's  face, 
and  make  the  most  comical  exhibitions  conceivable. 
Finally  number  one  wearies  and  retires  to  the  dry 
land.  Number  two  sneaks  up  behind  him  until  they 
are  back  to  back,  and  then,  reaching  over,  grabs  him, 
and,  taking  him  out  to  the  middle  of  the  pool  on  his 
own  back,  flops  him  over  his  head  into  the  pool — the 
preface  to  another  horse-play  contest.  Number  two 
then  goes  off  to  shake  his  gory  locks  around  the 
dancers  for  a  while.  Number  one,  after  disporting 
himself  in  the  pool  a  bit  longer,  sallies  out  to  the 
shrine;  and,  catching  up  on  his  back  a  prominent 
(aboriginal)  citizen,  who  is  dressed  in  new  and  blame- 
less white,  starts  off  with  him  at  a  gallop  for  the  pool. 
At  its  edge  he  is  met  by  the  returned  number  two, 
who  throws  a  handful  of  powdered  blue  clay  all  over 
his  wet  face.  Number  one  drops  his  recalcitrant  bur- 
den and  begins  groping  and  stepping  high  in  gro- 
tesque feint  of  blindness.  The  dirt-slinger  squats 


A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS  269 

quietly  in  the  middle  of  the  pool,  and  watches  these 
gropings  with  a  funny  leer.  Presently  number  one,  in 
his  high  stepping,  plants  his  foot  on  the  crown  of  num- 
ber two's  head,  lifts  himself  to  full  height  upon  it,  and 
goes  sprawling  headlong  on  the  other  side.  At  this 
arises  as  near  a  "  roar"  of  laughter  as  you  will  ever 
hear  in  a  Pueblo  town.  Number  two  now  lies  prone 
in  the  water,  his  head  only  a  little  lifted.  Number  one 
elevates  himself  and  returns  to  the  charge.  Again 
he  makes  his  partner's  head  a  stepping-stone  ;  again 
the  head  is  soused  down  into  the  water,  and  again 
number  one  ^oes  headlong  himself.  For  a  dozen 

o  o 

times  or  more  this  is  repeated  ;  and  each  time  it 
evokes  as  appreciative  a  laugh  from  the  audience  as 
at  the  outset.  And  so  their  rude  play  runs  on  until 
both  bands  of  dancers  are  hip-hopping  together  in 
the  plaza,  when  the  services  of  the  mirth-makers  are 
needed.  For  two  hours  a  furious  sand-storm  has 
been  sweeping  down  the  valley,  nearly  blinding 
everybody  but  the  performers.  The  dance  would  be 
kept  up  till  sunset,  but  at  three  o'clock  it  begins  to  rain 
emphatically,  and  though  eyes  are  no  object,  all 
that  feast-day  finery  is,  and  the  dance  ends  in  short 
order. 

Meanwhile  there  have  been  exciting  doings  on  the 
gravel  bench  back  of  the  pueblo.  The  Mexican  visi- 
tors have  procured  an  ancient  fowl  or  so  and  have 
been  running  their  wild  gallo  race — burying  the  bird 
in  the  sand  to  the  neck,  to  be  plucked  up  by  daring 
riders  as  they  thunder  past  at  full  gallop. 

A  somewhat  similar  fight  for  a  hog  also  takes  place 
in  the  valley  along  the  river,  where  five  Pueblos, 
stripped  to  the  G-string,  wrestle  and  run  for  their 


270  A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS 

porcine  prize  for  a  solid  hour.  One  of  them  drags 
the  hog — a  razor-backed  brute  of  no  mean  capacity 
as  a  racer  himself — into  a  deep  pool,  and  there  de- 
fends him  gallantly.  There  is  a  very  spirited  ducking 
match  before  one  athletic  young  man  finally  escapes 
with  the  hog  to  his  own  house. 

All  day  long  three  comfortable  houses  have  kept 
their  tables  spread  with  simple  food,  and  all  who 
wish  go  there  and  eat,  without  money  and  without 
price. 

All  day  long,  too,  good  San  Buena  Ventura  has 
been  liberally  attended.  Solemn  groups  of  men, 
women,  and  children  have  been  walking  soberly  to 
her  booth  and  leaving  her  the  richer  for  their  visits. 
The  women  carry  flaring  Apache  baskets  upon  their 
heads,  heaped  with  wheat,  apricots,  apples,  plums, 
corn,  melons,  and  the  like.  The  dingy  yellow  cloth 
which  serves  the  saint  as  a  supplementary  lap,  sags 
heavier  and  heavier,  as  the  hours  go  by,  with  store 
of  votive  offerings.  Mothers  hold  up  dimpled  babes 
to  kiss  the  holy  draperies  and  drop  a  treasured 
nickel. 

But  now  the  house  of  the  Sun-Father  is  sinking  be- 
hind the  peaks  of  Jemez.  The  Indian  visitors  are 
loping  off  homeward  ;  the  Cochitenos  seek  the  shel- 
ter of  their  adobe  homes,  and  the  Caucasians  are  al- 
ready splashing  across  the  ford  to  hold  a  baile  in  a 
clay-floored  corridor  under  the  spreading  trees  of 
Pefia  Blanca. 

Another  side  of  the  saint's-day  is  seen  in  \he  fiesta 
of  San  Juan  in  Acoma.  June  24th,  St.  John's  Day, 
is  not  the  most  important  feast  of  the  year  by  any 


A   DAY  OF  THE  SAINTS  273 

means,  being  surpassed  in  aboriginal  value  by  the 
day  of  San  Jose  the  pueblo's  patron,  and  by  the  har- 
vest feast ;  but  it  is  the  most  interesting  to  outsiders. 

When  first  the  gray  sky  in  the  east  turns  to  opal 
on  San  Juan's  morning  all  Acoma  is  awake.  Warmer 
grow  the  shifting  tints,  and  at  last  the  blood-red  disk 
floats  above  the  stunted  pinons  of  the  eastern  valley 
wall.  Upon  the  tops  of  their  high,  terraced  houses 
the  children  of  the  Sun  stand  motionless  and  rever- 
ent :  swathed  in  gorgeous  blankets,  bedecked  with 
lavish  silver  and  coral,  their  buckskin  cal zones  bound 
with  generous  amplitude  of  brilliant  garter,  their  long, 
soft  hair  restrained  by  silken  kerchiefs  or  bound  be- 
hind in  Egyptian  queues,  their  fine  figures  statuesque 
as  a  Grecian  marble,  their  keen  eyes  full  upon  that 
blinding  orb  in  whose  fatherhood  they  may  well  be 
pardoned  for  believing.  Five  minutes  later  the  mo- 
tionless groups  are  broken  up.  From  a  hundred  tall 
adobe  chimneys,  crowned  with  inverted  earthen  pots, 
the  sleepy  morning  smoke  curls  skyward.  Here  and 
there  a  rainbow-blanketed  form  glides  noiselessly 
along  the  solid  rock  of  the  lop-sided  streets  ;  and  out 
by  the  great  rock  cistern  beyond  the  noble  church 
may  be  seen  coming  the  stately  line  of  maids  and  ma- 
trons marching  homeward,  each  with  a  bright-hued 
tinaja  full  of  water  poised  gracefully  upon  her  shawled 
head,  while  below  her  quaint  high  boots  of  white 
buckskin  shimmer  in  the  level  sun. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  streets  are  alive.  Strong- 
faced,  athletic  men,  modest  and  comely  women,  chil- 
dren invariably  fat  and  good-natured,  in  the  easy 
freedom  of  a  single  garment,  the  infants  slung  in  the 
bight  of  shawls  on  the  backs  of  girls  of  five  to  ten 

18 


274  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

years — these  are  at  every  corner.  Up  and  down  the 
tall  ladders  which  serve  as  doorsteps  paddle  the 
chuckling  children  and  an  occasional  blear-eyed  dog. 
Everybody  is  in  high  feather  and  festal  dress.  The 
high,  sweet  voices  of  the  women  twitter  above  the 
deeper  chest-tones  of  the  men. 

Presently  rises  a  vast  clatter  along  the  mesas 
rocky  floor,  and  around  the  corner  of  the  church 
sweeps  the  Acoma  caballada — a  thousand  brave 
ponies,  lineal  descendants  of  that  Arab  blood  brought 
here  more  than  three  centuries  ago  by  the  Spanish 
cavaliers.  Behind  them  rides  the  lone  Pueblo  who 
has  rounded  them  up  on  the  plain  below  and  driven 
them  up  the  rocky  staircase,  built  with  infinite  labor 
a  generation  ago,  after  the  patient  people  had  tired 
of  the  dizzy  stone  ladder — inaccessible  to  horse  or 
cow,  or  even  to  the  sure-footed  goat — which  had 
hitherto  been  their  sole  adit.  Wheeling  through  a 
gap  in  the  southernmost  row  of  houses,  the  horses 
halt  of  their  own  accord  in  the  wide  space  between 
that  row  and  the  next,  and  there  stand  in  reflective 
quiet,  save  when  some  irredeemable  bronco  turns  his 
heels  loose  at  the  nose  of  an  over-inquisitive  brother. 

Shortly  after  eleven  o'clock  the  querulous  church- 
bells  begin  to  jangle  in  their  lofty  tower,  and  a  little 
procession,  mostly  of  women,  plods  sedately  to  the 
church.  Before  the  quaint  old  altar,  with  its  rude 
wood  paintings  and  comical  fluted  columns,  burn  a 
hundred  candles,  whose  wavering  flame  flares  upon 
the  ancient  timbers  and  herring-bone  ceiling  of  the 
lofty  roof.  At  the  head  of  the  procession  marches 
the  withered  old  native  sacristan,  Lorenzo  Arragon— 
followed  by  five  old  men  singing  the  misa  after  a  di- 


2/6  A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS 

lapidated  fashion.  The  women  bear  on  their  heads 
baskets  of  rushes  heaped  high  with  symbolic  articles. 
The  baskets  are  lined  with  soft,  green  moss.  Upon 
this  dainty  sward  are  scores  of  clever  clay  imitations 
of  horses,  steers,  cows,  sheep,  and  goats  ;  and  in  front 
of  each  gayly  painted  animalito  are  little  heaps  of 
corn  and  wheat  and  grass.  With  great  manceuvrings 
the  party  comes  before  the  ancient  and  dilapidated 
wooden  statue  of  St.  John,  who  to-day  occupies  the 
post  of  honor.  His  multiplicative  blessing  is  invoked 
that  there  may  be  great  increase  this  year  of  all  the 
property  represented  in  the  symbolic  baskets  ;  holy 
water  is  then  sprinkled  upon  the  articles,  and  the 
postulants  leave  the  church,  each  to  hide  the  sancti- 
fied basket  in  a  secret  corner  of  her  house,  there  to 
be  kept  a  year  from  date. 

A  little  after  noon  the  leisurely  crowd  begins  to 
drift  slowly  over  to  the  north  street,  the  narrowest 
but  smoothest  of  all.  Where  a  cross  street  comes  in, 
a  half  hundred  of  the  leading  old  men  of  the  pueblo 
squat  upon  the  rocks,  while  around  hang  clusters  of 
children.  The  surrounding  housetops  are  a  perfect 
kaleidoscope  of  gorgeous  color  and  gleaming  silver. 
The  solemn-faced  alguazil,  with  a  gay  green  drum  of 
rawhide  slung  at  his  side,  glances  around  him  search- 
ingly  and  begins  to  belabor  the  protesting  instrument 
with  two  aldermanic  drumsticks.  Directly  a  group 
of  boys  of  six  to  fifteen  years  begin  to  wriggle  out  of 
their  print  shirts  and  flapping  cotton  drawers.  Two 
fat  and  dimpled  little  chubs  reduce  themselves  to 
puro  fielote.  All  then  coat  themselves  with  a  film  of 
white  clay  from  a  big  tinaja.  A  few  striplings  of 
eighteen  also  shed  their  upper  garments,  retaining 


A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS  277 

only  their  drawers.  Then  the  smaller  youngsters 
repair  to  the  upper  end  of  the  street  and  stand  there 
in  a  nude  huddle.  The  drummer  gives  a  vicious 
thump  upon  his  drumhead  and  calls  out  a  disjointed 
order.  Two  boys  spring  from  the  group  and  come 
flying  down  the  street,  lithe  and  agile  as  young 
antelopes.  The  smaller  is  bent  on  winning.  His 
long  black  hair  floats  behind  ;  his  big  dark  eyes 
shine  like  stars,  and  his  chubby  legs  fairly  twinkle 
along  the  gray  rocky  floor.  The  larger  boy  runs  to 
win,  too,  but  he  is  more  infirm  of  purpose.  The 
housetop  crowds  catch  his  eyes  and  the  encouraging 
shouts  of  the  men  tickle  him.  He  leads  easily  to 
within  thirty  yards  of  the  winning-post,  and  then  in  a 
beautiful  spurt  the  little  fellow  fairly  sails  to  the  fore 
and  wins  by  a  yard,  amid  loud  applause. 

Before  the  breathless  boys  can  sink  upon  a  little 
bed  of  soft,  white  sand,  the  drummer  has  yelled  again, 
and  another  pair  of  biped  meteors  come  flashing 
down  the  track.  And  so  it  goes  till  each  couple  of 
the  fifty  boys  has  run  the  two-hundred-yard  course 
twice. 

Meantime  two  very  important  looking  fellows  with 
the  soberest  faces  in  the  world  have  brought  forth 
two  slender,  strong  poles  of  about  eighteen  feet  in 
length,  and  tied  to  each  near  the  top  the  end  of  a 
twenty-foot  horse-hair  reata.  One  of  them  then  pro- 
duces a  loudly  objecting  rooster,  ties  his  feet  together 
with  a  buckskin  thong,  and  fastens  the  thong  to  a 
loop  in  the  middle  of  the  pendent  rope.  Each  stand- 
ard-bearer then  grasps  his  pole  and  draws  it  toward 
him  till  the  intervening  "  lariat  "  is  half  taut.  The 
unfortunate  rooster  thus  dangles  headlong  at  a  height 


278  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

of  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  The  previous 
racers  now  fall  into  line  a  little  way  down  the  street, 
the  tiniest  of  them  in  the  lead.  A  crowd  of  grown- 
up boys  and  men  drop  in  behind  in  the  order  of  their 
altitude. 

Rousing  his  drum  from  its  sleepy  grunting  to  a 
hoarse  rattle,  the  alguazil  shouts  the  signal  for  the 
sport  to  begin.  In  mechanical  unanimity  the  long 
procession — there  are  in  it  one  hundred  and  nine  per- 
sons, ranging  in  height  from  six  feet  two  inches  in 
the  rear  to  two  feet  six  inches  in  front — with  the  pe- 
culiar hop-stamp,  hop-stamp,  moves  forward  with  de- 
liberate precision,  passing  between  the  poles  and 
under  the  chicken  in  single  file.  Each  runner  has  a 
little  branch  of  chapparo,  and  as  each  passes  under  the 
flapping  chanticleer  he  leaps  high  in  air  with  a  clear 
treble  "  eeyoop ! '"  and  a  simultaneous  wild  swipe 
with  his  stick  at  the  rooster,  which  by  able  ducking 
evades  most  of  these  offers.  Passing  up  the  street 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  the  procession  halts, 
doubles  upon  itself  in  a  serpentine  loop  and  starts 
back  toward  the  poles  at  a  notably  accelerated  pace. 
This  time  each  runner  jumps  higher,  strikes  harder, 
and  "  eeyoops  "  louder,  and  the  worried  target  has 
to  double  its  agility  to  clear  the  flying  switches.  Up 
and  down,  down  and  up,  the  procession  runs  half  a 
score  of  times  in  physical  and  vocal  crescendo.  On 
the  last  stretch  each  runner  hurls  his  light  switch  at 
the  mark. 

Still  in  line,  the  runners  now  rest  a  moment.  The 
pole  -  holders  step  each  a  step  inward,  so  that  the 
rooster  hangs  several  feet  nearer  the  ground.  Again 
the  drummer  signals,  and  again  the  running  begins. 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  279 

Now  each  runner  makes  a  frantic  leap  and  clutch  for 
the  prize,  the  pole  men  at  the  same  instant  twitching 
the  poles  outward  so  that  the  rooster  bobs  high  above 
the  reach  of  the  jumper.  In  this  fashion  the  proces- 
sion prances  back  and  forth  eight  or  ten  times.  Sud- 
denly a  tall,  finely  built  fellow  makes  a  superhuman 
lunge  into  the  air  and  catches  the  rooster  by  the  neck 
before  the  guards  can  swing  it  aloft.  With  a  single 
powerful  thrust  of  his  arm  he  bursts  the  buckskin 
thong,  and  with  a  wild  yell  breaks  from  the  line  and 
is  off  like  a  deer,  swinging  the  astounded  bird  tri- 
umphantly above  his  head.  The  whole  pack  is  at  his 
heels  in  an  instant,  and  amid  the  excited  shrieks  of 
the  spectators,  the  chase  sweeps  down  the  street  and 
around  the  corner  of  the  houses.  Round  and  round 
the  block  they  run,  the  pursued  doubling  and  turning 
like  a  jackrabbit  to  elude  the  wild  grabs  of  his  pur- 
suers. When  at  last  the  tremendous  pace  begins  to 
tell  even  on  his  deep  lungs,  he  whirls  and  brings  the 
chicken  down  with  a  resounding  thump  upon  the  bare 
shoulders  of  the  foremost  of  the  field.  The  youth 
thus  challenged  seizes  the  trophy  and  flies  ahead  with 
it,  the  crowd  following  him  as  before.  Those  who 
are  shorter  of  wind — an  every  case  the  "  educated" 
boys — lie  off  in  corners  and  resume  the  chase  when 
it  comes  around  again.  For  nearly  half  an  hour  this 
remarkable  running  continues  at  a  five-minute  gait  or 
less,  the  rooster  changing  hands  five  times  meanwhile. 
Then  the  runners  come  to  a  dead  stop  in  the  wide 
spot  in  front  of  the  open  place,  and  the  one  who  holds 
the  rooster,  turning  to  the  nearest  of  his  companions, 
assaults  him  with  the  rooster  and  great  vehemence. 
The  young  man  thus  belabored  grapples  with  his  as- 


280  A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS 

sailant  and  a  hard  struggle  ensues,  the  attacked  party 
finally  getting  hold  of  one  leg  of  the  now  thoroughly 
demoralized  chicken.  A  violent  bracing  apart,  a 
sharp  scuffle,  and  the  chicken  is  torn  in  two.  Loud 
are  the  cries  of  "  Putz-eesh  !  Putz-eesh  !  "  as  the  two 
now  rush  upon  two  others  and  begin  walloping  them 
with  the  sundered  sides  of  the  chicken.  Time  after 
time  the  bleeding  flesh  is  forcibly  subdivided  by  the 
excited  contestants,  and  with  each  new  piece  the  num- 
ber of  fighters  is  augmented.  Some  of  the  big  fellows 
hand  their  gallinaceous  clubs  to  the  youngsters,  until 
at  last  two  chubby  tots,  not  over  three  years  old,  are 
struggling  like  little  wildcats  over  a  bedraggled 
"  drumstick."  All  around  the  blows  are  the  hardest 
the  dealers  keep  in  stock,  yet  neither  baster  nor  bast- 
ed gets  angry.  On  the  contrary,  both  are  laughing 
as  long  as  they  have  breath  ;  and  when  at  last  the 
violent  sport  has  worn  itself  out,  the  victors  sit  down 
and  gnaw  the  dusty  and  well-macerated  flesh,  which 
is  believed  to  have  sovereign  qualities. 

By  this  time  the  sun  is  falling  low  toward  the  black 
mesa,  and  already  some  of  the  non-combatants  are 
lassoing  and  saddling  their  horses  from  the  caballada. 
Five-sixths  of  the  men  of  the  town,  and  two-thirds  of 
the  boys,  are  mounted,  riding  up  and  down  the  streets, 
and  showing  their  paces  to  the  women  above. 

Having  paraded  singly  and  in  groups  to  their 
heart's  content,  the  cavalcade,  numbering  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  horsemen,  files  out  around  the  rear  of 
the  church  and  starts  down  the  horse  trail,  or  rather 
the  ticklish  stairway,  down  which  Acoma  horses 
stump  unhesitatingly,  though  an  Eastern  horse 
would  faint  at  the  mere  sight  of  it. 


A   DAY  OF   THE   SAINTS  281 

Down  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  noble  flanking 
buttes  of  sandstone  the  poles  are  again  erected,  with 
another  chicken  dangling  between  them,  and  on  their 
spirited  steeds  these  wild  riders  re-enact  the  chicken 
race. 

The  first  house  in  town,  as  one  comes  up  from  the 
horse-trail,  is  the  large  casa  of  Martin,  the  fine  old 
ex-Governor.  Riding  up  to  this  the  flushed  riders 
wedge  their  horses  in  front,  and  with  shouts  of  "  Tse- 
ai-tee-ah  !  "  lift  three  hundred  hands  to  their  highest. 
In  a  moment,  from  the  door  of  the  second- story 
emerge  Martin's  two  buxom  daughters,  richly  dressed, 
each  bearing  upon  her  head  a  heaping  jicara.  Set- 
ting their  baskets  down  on  the  edge  of  the  roof  they 
begin  to  hurl  the  contents  out  upon  the  heads  of  the 
crowd.  Pieces  of  gay-colored  calico,  quarters  of 
jerked  mutton,  tortillas,  and  loaves  of  bread  of  a 
peculiar,  sacred  form  go  flying  through  the  air  amid 
the  yells  of  the  crowd.  The  deftness  with  which 
the  men  on  horseback  catch  these  missiles  would 
secure  them  a  first-class  baseball  engagement  in  the 
East,  and  the  mysterious  fashion,  in  which  they  stow 
away  what  they  secure  would  put  Hermann  to  the 
blush.  The  dismounted  ones  run  under  the  horses, 
unmindful  of  bronco  hoofs,  and  grab  whatever  misses 
the  clutches  of  the  horsemen. 

When  a  shower  of  gum-drops  from  the  inverted 
baskets  show  that  no  more  is  to  be  expected  there, 
the  cavalcade  gives  a  parting  yell  and  rushes  on  to 
the  next  house,  and  so  on  throughout  the  whole  town. 
Then  the  horses  are  returned  to  the  crowd  of  their 
unridden  fellows  and  the  crowd  breaks  up.  A  little 
later  one  may  see  the  Navajo  squaws  filling  their 


282  A   DAY  OF  THE   SAINTS 

blankets  with  the  bushels  of  provisions  they  have 
captured,  while  the  recent  racers  are  riding  through 
the  caballada  with  little  pitchers,  from  which  they 
take  generous  mouthfuls  of  water  and  blow  it  over 
their  favorite  steeds  —  a  sure  safeguard  against  all 
equine  ills.  Then,  too,  scores  of  tiny  bare  boys 
run  along  the  houses,  while  the  women  pour  water 
on  them  from  above — another  custom  of  medicinal 
authority. 

The  big,  red  moon  peeps  over  the  horizon,  and 
finding  the  coast  clear,  comes  climbing  up.  The 
streets  empty  themselves  upon  the  housetops.  As 
the  hours  slip  by  the  chatting  and  chanting  groups 
grow  fewer.  Now  and  then  a  few  young  men  come 
down  the  street  dancing  in  stately  measure,  or  wrestle 
on  the  patches  of  soft  sand.  And  when  at  last  the 
shrunken  moon  looks  down  from  behind  the  great 
church,  all  Acoma  is  asleep  and  the  feast  of  the 
Beloved  Disciple  is  over. 


XI 
THE  CITIES  THAT  WERE  FORGOTTEN 


THE  CITIES  THAT  WERE  FORGOTTEN 

THE  most  remarkable  hiatus  in  Americanvhistory 
—and  perhaps  in  all  history — is  that  which  sun- 
ders the  past  and  present  of  the  Quivira.  Individuals 
have  now  and  then  lost  identity ;  but  never  elsewhere 
was  there  a  town  so  consummately  confounded.  Al- 
together gratuitously,  but  so  fully  that  a  century  will 
scarce  identify  it  to  the  slow  world,  it  has  become  the 
Iron  Mask  of  cities.  Such  gilded  myths  never  hung 
so  long  before  on  one  unshifting  spot ;  and  the  Golden 
Fleece  itself  fathered  less  heroism  and  hardship,  less 
disappointment  and  thirsty  death.  Probably  a  hun- 
dred Americans  know  of  the  Dorado  of  South  Amer- 
ica, to  every  one  who  ever  heard  of  the  Quivira;  but 
a  strange  ashen  ruin  in  our  own  land  has  become  the 
home  of  a  myth  as  startling  and  as  potent  in  history, 
as  that  which  sprung  from  the  yearly  plunge  of  a  gold- 
dusted  cacique  into  Lake  Puatavita.  The  fable  of  the 
Quivira  it  was  which  led  to  the  first  great  interior  ex- 
ploration of  what  is  now  United  States — eighty  years 
before  the  Saxon  had  penetrated  to  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  nearly  three  centuries 
before  he  got  so  far  inland  as  were  the  Spanish 
chasers  of  the  Quivira — and  it  played  an  important 
part  in  the  opening  and  colonization  of  the  vast  region 
between  Kansas  City  and  California.  Three  hundred 


286      THE   CITIES    THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

and  fifty  years  ago  it  inspired  an  astounding  march 
which  has  never  since  been  paralleled  in  North 
America  ;  and  to  this  day  it  has  not  ceased  to  count  its 
yearly  victims.  And  besides  playing  golden  will-o'- 
the-wisp  through  all  that  the  world  has  been  and 
seen  since  good  Queen  Bess  dropped  pinafores,  it 
stands  alone  as  the  largest  blunder  of  history — and 
also  as  the  stage  of  the  Ultimate  Folly. 

The  myth  of  the  Quivira,  for  centuries  a  vagabond, 
sat  down  at  last  in  one  of  the  astounding  ruins  of  the 
Manzano  Plains,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  south  oi 
Santa  Fe,  and  eighty  southeast  of  Albuquerque.  If 
those  who  fritter  abroad,  still  ignorant  of  their  own 
land,  with  the  plea  "  America  is  so  new,  and  has  no 
ruins,"  might  see  the  cities  of  the  Accursed  Lakes,  they 
would  grow  modest  as  to  the  castles  of  the  Rhine. 
And  if  our  histories,  which  seem  to  fancy  that  Amer- 
ica began  with  Jamestown  and  Plymouth  Rock,  might 
imbibe  somewhat  of  that  eternal  pursuit,  that  sleep- 
less seeking,  of  which  the  Quivira  is  one  monument, 
it  would  be  the  better  for  justice  and  for  intelligence. 

The  birth  and  development  of  this  most  romantic 
(and  historically  most  important)  of  North  American 
myths,  is  so  curious,  and  in  one  way  so  complicated, 
that  one  scarce  knows  from  which  end  to  approach  it 
—whether  from  the  terminus  of  cause  or  that  of  effect. 
There  are  some  reasons,  however,  which  make  it 
seem  best  to  trace  the  first  half  of  this  strange 
double  story  chronologically. 

The  Quivira  myth  was  born  in  New  Mexico  in 
1540,  of  poor  and  none  too  honest  parents.  Its 
father  was  an  Indian  captive  ;  its  mother  that  drab, 
Opportunity  ;  its  nurse,  who  went  bankrupt  in  the 


A   QUIVIRA   MYTH-MAKER. 


288      THE   CITIES   THAT    WERE   FORGOTTEN 

suckling,  the  most  remarkable  explorer  that  ever  trod 
North  American  soil.  And  it  all  came  to  pass  by 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  executive  minds  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  that  great  first  Viceroy  of  New  Spain, 
Antonio  de  Mendoza. 

Generally  speaking,  the  New  World  had  already 
been  conquered  by  and  for  Spain.  There  was  still 
an  infinity  to  be  done ;  but  the  broad  foundations  of 
Spanish  America  had  been  laid — and  in  a  cement 
which  time  will  never  crumble.  Mexico  was  no 
longer  an  empire  to  be  fought  for,  but  a  province  to 
be  developed  ;  and  the  reaction  after  conquest  means 
always  danger.  Already  the  young  Spanish  blades 
there 

"  For  want  of  fighting  had  grown  rusty, 
And  ate  into  themselves  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack." 

Just  as  the  rust  grew  menacing,  came  Fray  Marcos's 
discovery  of  New  Mexico — and  Mendoza  saw  his  op- 
portunity. To  the  ambitious  and  already  renowned 
soldier  Francisco  Vasquez  de  Coronado,  he  gave  an 
expedition  of  these  restive  cavaliers,  and  strict  orders 
to  take  them  hunting  and  never  bring  them  back. 

The  first  half  of  this  command  Coronado  carried 
out  with  a  vengeance.  He  led  his  fistful  of  an  army 
through  the  exploration  of  thousands  of  desert  miles 
within  our  own  area  that  not  one  per  cent,  of  present 
Americans  ever  dreamed  of.  His  expeditions  dis- 
covered the  greatest  chasm  on  earth — the  Grand 
Canon  of  the  Colorado — and  most  of  the  other 
marvels  of  the  Southwest,  three  centuries  before  a 
Saxon  ever  saw  any  of  them.  In  the  latter  weeks  of 
1540  he  had  his  quarters  at  the  pueblo  of  Tiguex — 


THE    CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN    289 

now  the  pretty  town  of  Bernalillo  — on  the  Rio 
Grande,  in  central  New  Mexico.  Thence  he  made  a 
reconnoissance  to  the  pueblo  of  Pecos  ;  and  there  the 
myth  was  born. 

It  is  a  striking  truth  that  in  the  whole  opening  of 
the  two  Americas  fable  was  a  far  more  important 
agent  than  fact ;  and  this  was  as  marked  in  the  area 
which  is  now  ours  as  in  the  southern  continent.  The 
first  of  our  present  States  to  be  entered  by  Cauca- 
sians, and  the  earliest  town  in  our  nation  to  be 
founded,  were  entered  and  founded  under  the  lead  of 
fairy-tales.  As  it  was  with  Florida,  so  with  the 
Southwest.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  mythical  broider- 
ing  given  the  real  "  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola,"  Men- 
doza  would  never  have  sent  Coronado  into  New 
Mexico  ;  and  but  for  sequel-myths,  the  greatest  path- 
finder would  never  have  made  his  unparalleled 
march. 

Disappointed,  of  course,  in  the  fabled  gold  of  the 
Seven  Cities — which  were  merely  Pueblo  towns  like 
Zuni,  their  surviving  child — Coronado  was  revolving 
the  best  way  to  carry  out  the  second  part  of  his 
orders,  to  colonize  and  stay.  It  chanced  that  the 
Pecos  then  had  a  captive  Plains  Indian — very  prob- 
ably a  Pawnee — whom  they  had  bought  from  the 
Apaches.  This  slave  was  notable  among  his  long- 
haired Pueblo  masters  for  the  fashion  in  which  his 
head  was  shaven — only  the  scalp-lock  being  left,  after 
the  custom  of  his  people — and  will  go  down  history 
under  the  nickname  the  Spaniards  gave  him,  of  "  the 
Turk."  Whether  he  was  sole  progenitor  of  his  dis- 
astrous offspring  cannot  be  positively  known  ;  but  the 
presumption  is  strong  that  he  had  to  father  a  creature 
19 


290     THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

of  his  captors.  He  had  nothing  to  gain  by  the  in- 
vention, but  they  a  great  deal — namely,  to  rid  them- 
selves of  their  unwelcome  guests. 

At  all  events  it  came  to  pass  that  "  the  Turk,"  ap- 
prised of  the  failure  of  the  Spaniards  to  find  that 
yellow  stone  they  were  seeking,  informed  Coronado 
that  he  wot  where  there  was  much.  Before  he  came 
to  captivity  and  New  Mexico,  he  knew  a  tribe  of  the 
plains  which  had  great  store  of  this  substance.  The 
tribe  was  called  Quivira,  and  he  could  lead  to  its 
range.  No  sooner  said  than  attempted  to  be  done. 
Coronado  took  his  "  army  "  and  his  guide,  and  went 
again  rainbow-chasing.  The  Turk  led  them  east  into 
the  trackless  plains,  intending — as  he  afterward  con- 
fessed— to  lose  them  and  let  them  perish  in  those  ap- 
palling wastes.  But,  like  many  a  later  confidence- 
man,  he  had  attempted  the  wrong  greenhorn.  At 
about  the  centre  of  our  present  Indian  Territory, 
Coronado,  finding  that  he  was  being  duped  and  that 
the  guide  was  leading  them  in  a  circle,  sent  back  to 
Tiguex  the  bulk  of  his  little  force,  and  taking  the 
lead  himself,  carried  his  thirty  men  through  frightful 
hardships  to  very  near  where  Kansas  City  now 
stands.  And  here  he  found  the  Quiviras — but,  I 
hardly  need  say,  no  gold.  There  was  in  the  whole 
tribe  one  solitary  fragment  of  any  metal — a  bit  of 
native  copper  worn  on  the  necklace  of  a  war  captain. 
The  Quivira  was  a  Teton  nomad — a  cousin  of  the 
Sioux — drifting  with  the  buffalo,  which  was  his  poli- 
tics and  his  profession  ;  planting  a  little  corn  when 
the  bison  stood  still,  leaving  it  when  he  wandered — 
a  mere  aboriginal  Gypsy,  without  house  or  wealth  or 
art.  It  is  all  plain  enough.  Every  eye-witness  who 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN      291 

then  or  thereafter  saw  the  Quiviras,  describes  them 
precisely  as  utter  barbarians,  clothed  only  in  skins, 
eating  raw  meat,  and  having  no  bread,  no  metal, 
no  towns,  no  arts  whatever,  "  una  gente  muy  bestial, 
sin  policia  ninguna  en  las  casas,  ni  en  otra  cosa"  * 
And  that  was  the  reward  of  the  most  amazing  expe- 
dition ever  made  on  our  soil  ! 

Having  thus  broken  the  golden  bubble  of  the  Qui- 
vira,  and  with  it  his  own  stout  heart,  Coronado  be- 
headed the  treacherous  guide,  and,  with  his  little  fol- 
lowing, retraced  his  fearful  way  to  Tiguex,  where  we 
must  leave  him.  But  his  having  reduced  it  to  an  ab- 
surdity was  not  the  end  of  the  chimera.  It  was  too 
vigorous  a  youngster  to  perish  of  mere  annihilation. 
Truth  crushed  to  earth  never  rises  again  with  half  the 
agile  alacrity  of  error  ;  and  it  was  not  half  a  century 
after  Coronado  had  fully  shown  up  the  Quivira  swin- 
dle before  it  began  to  find  other  victims.  Even  the 
hard-headed  colonizer  of  New  Mexico,  the  founder  of 
the  second  and  third  Caucasian  towns  in  all  our  coun- 
try, Juan  de  Onate,  was  not  proof  against  the  bright 
mirage,  and  chased  it  assiduously,  but  in  vain.  And 
after  him  came  many  another — Alonzo  Vaca,  in  1634; 
and  Governor  Luis  de  Rozas,  in  1638  ;  and  Diego  de 
Guadalajara,  about  1654;  and  Juan  Dominguez  de 
Mendoza,  in  1684,  and  many  before  and  many  after— 
and  many  a  one  of  them  laid  their  bones  to  whiten 
along  the  thirsty  trail  of  that  elusive  vision.  It  has 
been  for  three  hundred  years  the  siren  of  the  South- 

*  Relacion  del  Suceso,  p.  326.  See  also  Coronado's  Carta  a  su  Magestad, 
1541,  p.  246  et  seq.;  Juan  Jaramillo's  Relacion  Hecha,  p.  315  ;  Castaneda's 
Cibola,  p.  194  ;  Torquemada,  Gomara,  Herrera,  and  every  other  Spanish  source 
bearing  on  this  point. 


292       THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

west.  I  know  of  but  one  thing1  so  remarkable  as  that 
so  many  Spaniards — so  many  college  men  as  well  as 
soldiers  of  them — should  have  given  ear  to  that  golden 
lie  ;  and  that  is,  that  a  hundred  times  as  many  Ameri- 
cans trust  it  as  implicitly  to-day. 

So  much  for  the  original  myth  of  the  Quivira — a 
wilful  and  treacherous  falsehood,  in  the  first  place  ; 
and  in  the  second,  distinctly  invented  only  for,  and 
applicable  only  to,  a  nomad  tribe  in  northeastern  Kan- 
sas ;  and  thirdly,  nailed  and  pilloried  as  a  lie  in  that 
same  year  of  its  birth,  1540.  To  trace  the  modern 
perversion  of  what  now  becomes  the  Gran  *  Quivira, 
we  will  begin  the  other  end-to. 

South  of  Albuquerque,  the  chief  commercial  town 
of  the  Territory,  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande 
is  rimmed  on  the  east  by  an  arid  plateau,  twenty  miles 
wide  ;  and  this  in  turn  is  walled  by  a  long  cordillera 
often  thousand  foot  peaks — the  Sandia,  the  Bosque, 
the  Manzano,  the  Oscuro.  Climbing  that  rugged 
barrier,  or  threading  one  of  its  passes,  the  traveller 
thence  descends  through  park-like  pineries  to  the 
edge  of  the  infinite  eastward  plains.  In  the  centre  of 
his  bare,  brown  vista  gleams  a  chain  of  ghastly  white 
salines,  the  Accursed  Lakes  of  Tigua  folk-lore.  These 
once  were  fresh— the  story  runs — the  home  of  fish 
and  water-fowl,  the  drinking-places  of  the  bison  and 
the  antelope.  But  in  one  of  them  dwelt  an  unfaithful 
wife,  and  for  her  sins  the  lakes  were  accursed  to  be 
salt  forever.  Beyond  them  the  dead  plain  melts  upon 
the  indeterminate  horizon.  Between  them  and  the 
cordilleras,  dark,  low  ridges  fade  from  pine-clad  slope 
to  barren  prairie.  Far  southeast  and  south  are  the 

*  Great. 


THE   CITIES   THAT    WERE  FORGOTTEN      293 

spectral  peaks  of  the  Sierra  de  la  Gallina,  the  Sierra 
Capitana,  the  Sierra  del  Carrizo,  the  Sierra  Blanca; 
and  to  the  farther  north  the  dim  blue  shadows  of  the 
range  of  Santa  Fe.  It  is  a  strange,  weird  outlook — a 
visual  leap  into  space.  There  is  nothing  else  quite  so 
like  it  as  the  eastward  view  from  the  top  of  Pike's 
Peak. 

Along  the  smooth,  timbered  lower  slope  of  the 
Manzano  is  a  north  and  south  line  of  ancient  Pueblo 
ruins.  The  mounds  of  long-abandoned  Shumnac  and 
its  sister  towns  bleach  beside  their  squalid  successors, 
the  Mexican  plazas  of  Chilili,  Tajique,  and  Manzano. 
A  little  farther  south,  and  pointing  a  right-angled  tri- 
angle, are  the  bones  of  the  three  chief  cities  of  the 
salines — Abo,  Cuaray,  and  Tabira.  It  must  be  under- 
stood that  I  use  the  word  "cities  "  here  with  a  restric- 
tion and  not  in  the  sense  of  the  Romantic  School. 
These  were  cities  like  Montezuma's  "  capital,"  though 
smaller.  There  was  no  hint  of  a  metropolis — no 
palaces,  no  temples,  no  splendor.  Like  those  of  en- 
fabled  Mexico,  these  towns  were  mere  piles  of  earth 
and  stone — Pueblo  communities  exactly  such  as  are 
seen  to-day  in  Taos,  Acoma,  Zuni.  None  of  them, 
here  or  in  Mexico,  were  entitled  by  size  or  magnifi- 
cence to  be  called  cities,  and  the  term  is  applied  to 
them,  simply  because  architecturally,  socially,  and 
politically  they  were  of  an  organization  complete  be- 
yond what  is  expressed  by  our  word  "  town."  Each 
was  a  self-governing,  independent  commonwealth, 
compact  and  fortified ;  a  republic  within  walls  ;  and 
as  such  they  seem  more  fitly  entitled  "  cities,"  with 
due  insistence  upon  the  special  limitations  of  the  word 
here. 


294      THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

Twenty  miles  south  of  the  New  Mexican  hamlet  of 
Manzano,  and  the  riddle  of  its  ancient  apple-trees,  is 


ABO — THE    WESTERN    WALL. 


the  noble  ruin  of  the  pueblo  of  Abo.  Its  site  is  a  wee 
bead  of  a  valley,  strung  upon  a  deep  and  ragged  ar- 
royo,  between  an  eastern  rocky  ridge  and  the  long  ac- 
clivity to  the  mountains.  The  pueblo  itself  was  a 


THE    CITIES    THAT    WERE  FORGOTTEN     295 

large  hollow  square,  over  two  hundred  feet  on  a  side, 
of  unbroken,  three-story  stone  houses,  terraced  tow- 
ard, and  opening  upon,  the  safe  inner  court.  Out- 
side, and  parallel  with,  the  north  end  of  this  quad- 
rangle was  a  separate  block  of  three-story  buildings. 
So  far  the  ruins  present  nothing  novel  to  the  student 
of  Pueblo  antiquities.  They  are  merely  the  usual 
tousled  mounds  of  fallen  building-stone  and  inblown 
sand.  But  a  few  rods  north  of  the  pueblo  tower  the 
giant  walls  of  a  noble  edifice — such  walls  as  would 
have  been  long  ago  immortalized  in  American  litera- 
ture, were  they  in  Rhenish  Bavaria  instead  of  a  land 
which  might  be  fancied  to  have  a  patriotic  interest  to 
Americans.  Amid  the  talus  of  tumbled  stone  these  two 
vast  parallel  walls,  forty-two  feet  apart,  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  feet  long,  and  twelve  feet  thick  at  the  base, 
soar  sixty  feet  aloft  in  rugged  majesty.  Their  an- 
cient masonry  of  darkly-rufous  sandstone,  in  adobe 
mortar,  is  almost  perfect  in  alignment  still.  A  spade 
slides  smoothly  down  their  plane  surfaces.  The 
two  end  walls  of  the  structure  are  gone  to  utter 
wrack ;  and  the  one-time  floor  is  lost  under  a  dozen 
feet  or  more  of  their  jumbled  ruin.  The  long-potent 
Romantic  School  would  have  it,  of  course,  that  this 
was  a  temple  of  the  Sun,  and  built  of  "  dressed  stone," 
as  usual.  It  is  as  well  to  note,  in  passing,  that  there 
is  no  dressed  stone  in  any  ancient  ruin  of  New  Mex- 
ico or  Arizona — though  there  are  numberless  hand- 
some walls  which  the  theorizer  will  (not  altogether 
inexcusably)  insist  were  wrought.  But  while  the  pre- 
historic aborigine  here  had  no  tools  wherewith  to 
dress  any  rock  but  tufa,  the  natural  cleavage  and 
the  fractile  lines  of  the  sandstone  were  extremely 


296       THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

kind  to  him,  and  he  could  pick  from  his  quarry  ready- 
made  slabs  which  had  every  appearance  of  having 
been  roughly  worked. 

The  wee  oasis  of  Abo  is  not  now  a  solitude,  though 
the  tribe  that  builded  its  dark  piles  long  ago  faded 
from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  A  half-dozen  Mexican 
families  dwell  under  the  gigantic  cottonwoods  that  sap 
the  puny  rill ;  and  here  is  the  home  of  the  paisano 
genius — immortalized  in  territorial  proverb — who 

lt  fue  por  Socorro^y  no  supo  porque" 

He  made  the  long  and  trying  journey  in  safety  ;  but 
on  arriving  at  Socorro  knew  not  why,  and  had  to  re- 
turn to  Abo  to  ask  his  comadre,  "  For  what  went 
I  ? "  This  information  gained,  he  trudged  back  his 
fifty  miles  and  fulfilled  his  mission,  and  trudged  home 
again.  His  house,  and  all,  are  built  of  ready  stone 
from  the  huge  dark  walls  that  frown  down  upon  the 
degenerate  present. 

The  second  corner  of  the  forgotten  triangle  is  fif- 
teen miles  east  of  Abo,  within  rifle-shot  of  the  Mexi- 
can townlet  of  Punta  de  Agua.  Here,  in  another 
bowl-like  little  vale,  with  outlook  between  its  rim- 
ridges  to  the  weary  sea  of  prairie,  crumble  the  reli- 
quiae of  the  ancient  pueblo  of  Cuarai.*  Like  Abo,  the 
ruined  city  itself  is  a  huddle  of  indeterminate  mounds 
of  masonry,  and  less  imposing  than  many  longer- 
abandoned  pueblos.  But,  like  Abo  too,  it  is  compan- 
ioned by  a  huge  and  mysterious  edifice — an  edifice  in 
ruins,  it  is  true,  but  so  tall,  so  solemn,  so  dominant  of 
that  strange,  lonely  landscape,  so  out  of  place  in  that 
land  of  adobe  box-huts,  as  to  be  simply  overpowering. 

*  Spelled  also  in  the  older  MSS.,  Cuarac. 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WE'RE  FORGOTTEN     297 

On  the  Rhine  it  would  be  a  superlative ;  in  the  wil- 
derness of  the  Manzano  it  is  a  miracle.  Its  great, 
shadowy  walls  are  neither  so  lofty  nor  so  thick  as 
those  of  Abo ;  but  neither  are  they  so  breached.  The 
great  rectangle  is  practically  complete,  with  three 
walls  largely  perfect,  and  part  of  the  fourth.  The  ma- 
sonry is  quite  as  fine  as  at  Abo,  and  the  architecture 
as  imposing.  A  big  modern  chapel,  a  few  rods  to  the 


CUARAI    FROM   THE   SOUTHWEST. 


east,  is  built  of  plundered  stone,  but  the  ancient  tem- 
ple seems  scarce  to  feel  the  robbery.  Its  roof  long 
ago  disappeared,  but  the  massive  walls  stand  firm  as 
the  mother  ledges,  and  still  hold  the  careful  mortises 
for  long-forgotten  rafters.  At  the  foot  of  the  hillock 
is  a  tiny  rivulet,  sentinelled  by  a  tall  and  lonely  pine; 
and  upon  the  hillside,  a  few  hundred  yards  south,  is 
a  large,  strange  circular  enclosure  fenced  about  with 
upright  slabs  of  rock. 

The  third  and  southeast  corner  of  the  triangle  is 
thirty  miles  from  Cuarai,  and  about  the  same  distance 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 


from  Abo  ;  much  farther  from  the  mountains  than 
they,  but  hardly  more  in  the  plains  —  since  it  is  in  an 
outlying  huddle  of  round  ridges.  The  country  here 
is  much  higher  than  on  the  western  side  of  the  cor- 
dillera  —  the  pueblo  which  we  now  approach  is  6,047 


INTERIOR    OF   THE    RUIN    OF    CUARAI. 


feet  above  the  sea-level.  Access  to  it  is  difficult  and 
dreary  The  nearest  water  is  thirty  miles  away  ;  and 
the  explorer  must  carry  not  only  provisions,  but  water 
for  himself  and  animals.  Toiling  down  the  edge  of 
the  ghastly  plains,  thence  into  long,  smooth  trough- 
valleys,  along  the  eastern  acclivity  of  the  dark-wooded 
Mesa  de  los  Jumanos,  ankle  deep  in  the  sands  of  the 
medano,  the  traveller  feels  at  every  step,  with  every 
breath,  a  crowding  influence  he  knows  not  what. 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN      299 

Mid-ocean  is  not  more  lonesome  than  the  plains,  nor 
night  so  gloomy  as  that  dumb  sunlight.  It  is  barren 
of  sound.  The  brown  grass  is  knee-deep— and  even 
that  trifle  gives  a  shock,  in  this  hoof-obliterated  land. 
The  bands  of  antelope  that  drift,  like  cloud  shadows, 
across  the  dun  landscape  suggest  less  of  life  than  of 
the  supernatural.  The  spell  of  the  plains  is  a  won- 
drous thing.  At  first  it  fascinates.  Then  it  bewilders. 
At  last,  it  crushes.  It  is  sure  as  the  grave  and 
worse.  It  is  intangible  but  resistless  ;  stronger  than 
hope,  reason,  will — stronger  than  humanity.  When 
one  cannot  otherwise  escape  the  plains,  one  takes 
refuge  in  madness. 

But  on  a  sudden,  the  tension  is  relieved.  A  mile  to 
the  south,  where  a  whaleback  ridge  noses  the  uncanny 
valley,  stands  out  a  strange  ashen  bulk  that  brings  us 
back  to  earth.  Wan  and  weird  as  it  is,  it  bespeaks 
the  one-time  presence  of  man,  for  Nature  has  no  such 
squarenesses. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  whole  world  can  show 
elsewhere,  nor  that  a  Dore  could  dream  into  canvas, 
a  ghostliness  so  a  propos.  Stand  upon  the  higher 
ridges  to  the  east,  and  it  is  all  spread  before  you,  a 
wraith  in  pallid  stone — the  absolute  ghost  of  a  city. 
Its  ashen  hues  which  seem  to  hover  above  the  dead 
grass,  foiled  by  the  sombre  blotches  of  the  junipers ; 
its  indeterminate  gray  hints,  outspoken  at  last  in  the 
huge,  vague  shape  that  looms  in  its  centre;  its 
strange,  dim  outlines  rimmed  with  a  flat,  round  world 
of  silence — but  why  try  to  tell  that  which  has  no  tell- 
ing? Who  shall  wreak  expression  of  that  spectral 
city? 

Come    nearer,  and  the    spell    dwindles  ;  but   it   is 


300      THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

never  broken.  Even  as  we  pass  our  hands  over  that 
forgotten  masonry  of  pale  limestones,  or  clamber 
over  fallen  walls  with  tangible  stubbing  of  material 
toes,  the  uhearthliness  of  the  haggard  scene  does  not 
wholly  cease  to  assert  itself.  Only,  we  now  know 
that  it  is  not  a  ghost-city,  which  the  next  breeze  may 
waft  away.  It  is  a  ruined  pueblo  again — but  such  a 
pueblo  !  Not  in  size  nor  in  architecture — there  are 
several  others  as  large,  and  some  as  imposing — but 
in  color  and  in  setting  it  is  alone.  Small  wonder  for 
the  folly  of  its  later  devotees — it  seems  the  rightful 
home  of  superstition,  and  here  the  wildest  myth  need 
not  be  ill  at  ease. 

This  was  the  pueblo  of  Tabira,  infinitely  better 
known,  in  this  day  of  grace  and  putative  light,  as  the 
"  Gran  Quivira."  It  was  one  of  the  larger  pueblos 
of  New  Mexico,  and  in  its  day  had  perhaps  fifteen 
hundred  inhabitants  ;  not  more.  It  was  a  village  of 
unusual  shape,  prescribed  by  the  topography  of  the 
ridge  ;  a  long,  narrow  array  of  three  and  four  story 
terraced  houses  in  vaguely  parallel  blocks,  facing 
each  other  across  narrow  alleys.  Six  circular  estufas, 
partly  subterranean,  yawn  at  random  amid  the  ruins. 
The  walls  of  the  houses  have  toppled  to  high  rubbish 
mounds — hardly  one  stands  to  tell  its  former  stat- 
ure. Only  a  few  rooms  of  first  and  second  stories, 
long  innocent  of  roofs,  gape  from  out  the  moraine  of 
time.  But  at  the  centre  of  the  southerly  blocks  is  still 
the  gray,  quadrangular  wall — now  sadly  battered — of  a 
very  large  building,  with  traces  of  an  enclosure  at  its 
east  end.  And  in  the  western  terminus  of  the  village, 
just  on  the  brow  of  the  slope  that  falls  away  to  the 
strange  valley  and  looks  across  to  the  sombre  Mesa 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE   FORGOTTEN     301 

de  los  Jumanos,  is  another  and  a  gigantic  ruin,  whose 
like  is  not  in  all  our  North  America.  Its  walls,  thirty 
feet  high  and  six  feet  thick,  roofless  and  ragged  at  the 


TABIRA—  REAR    ENTRANCE   WITH    CARVED    LINTEL. 

top,  two  hundred  and  two  feet  front  and  one  hundred 
and  thirty-one  feet  in  greatest  depth,  are  of  the  same 
spectral  bluish-gray  limestone,  broken  into  irregular 
but  flat-faced  prisms  and  firmly  laid  in  adobe  mortar. 


302       THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE   FORGOTTEN 

The  northern  part  of  this  bewildering  ruin  is  one  huge 
cruciform  room,  thirty-eight  feet  wide  and  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-one  feet  long,  with  an  eastward  gate- 
way fifteen  feet  wide  and  eleven  high,  under  a  mighty 
timber  which  upholds  fifteen  feet  of  massive  masonry. 
South  of  this  enormous  room  is  a  honeycomb  of 
chambers  of  ordinary  size,  divided  by  long  halls,  and 
with  sides  still  standing  to  a  height  of  twenty  feet. 
Of  these  rooms  there  are  a  score.  It  is  plain  that 
they  had  no  upper  stories,  as  had  the  dwellings  of  the 
pueblo.  There  is  also  a  rear  entrance  from  the  south 
to  the  great  room,  through  a  spacious  ante-chamber. 
In  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  honeycomb  is  still  a 
perfect  fireplace  ;  and  here  and  there  over  the  vacant 
doorways  are  carved-wood  lintels,  their  arabesques 
softened  but  not  lost  in  the  weathering  of  centuries. 
Some  of  the  rafters  must  have  weighed  a  ton  and  a 
half  to  two  tons  ;  and  the  trees  which  gave  them  were 
at  least  fifteen  miles  away. 

Here  is  the  asylum  of  the  modern  Quivira-myth  ; 
the  Mecca  of  the  Southwestern  fortune-hunter  ;  the 
field  of  the  Last  Folly.  That  it  should  have  been 
chosen  from  among  all  the  fifteen  hundred  pueblo 
ruins  in  New  Mexico  for  credulity  to  butt  its  head 
against,  is  not  strange  physically.  Its  bleak,  un- 
earthly site,  the  necromancy  of  the  plains,  its  ghostly 
aspect,  and  its  distance  from  all  water,  were  enough 
to  stop  and  hold  the  later  treasure-seekers,  who  had 
heard  vaguely  that  "  Coronado  hunted  the  Quivira," 
but  utterly  failed  to  hear  that  he  found  it — found  it  in 
northeastern  Kansas,  and  found  it  worthless.  These 
new  victims  found  this  unprecedented  ruin  of  Tabira 
a  century  ago  ;  and  to  them  we  owe  the  misnomer 


THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN      303 

of  Gran  Quivira.  Since  their  day  its  rest  has  been 
yearly  broken.  At  first  were  those  who  pried  in  the 
debris-choked  lower  rooms  of  the  pueblo,  and  go- 
phered under  the  mighty  walls  of  the  temple.  But 
they  were  only  poor  paisanos  who  could  neither  read 
nor  ask  of  history.  Within  the  last  decade  members 
of  the  Superior  Race  drilled  down  through  a  hundred 
feet  of  the  eternal  bedrock  in  quest  of  buried  treasure, 
and  the  ruins  of  Tabira  are  so  peppered  with  their 
shafts  that  it  is  unsafe  to  move  about  by  night. 

For  the  myth  of  the  Quivira  has  come  to  Tabira  to 
stay.  Neither  fact  nor  reason  will  ever  fully  dislodge 
it,  and  it  will  always  count  its  dupes.  It  has  even 
grown,  in  that  arid  home,  to  startling  proportions. 
The  Quivira  of  Coronado  is  forgotten,  and  in  its  stead 
is  the  Gran  Quivira.  It  is  no  resurrection  of  the 
old  myth,  but  the  invention  of  a  new.  To  'keep  in  it 
the  vital  spark  its  nurses  have  to  stand  history  upon 
its  head,  and  turn  the  compass  inside- out;  to  give 
the  lie  to  the  sober  record  of  eye-witnesses,  and  the 
ear  to  professional  myth-makers.  Scarce  a  month 
goes  by  in  which  the  territorial  newspapers  do  not 
print  some  new  fable  or  allusion  to  the  old  ;  and  even 
as  I  write,  an  expedition  is  fitting  out  in  Albuquerque 
to  seek  "  the  buried  treasure."  The  folk-lore  of  the 
Mexican  population  has  suddenly  become  exuberant 
with  new  Quivira  tales.  Every  now  and  then  an 
awe-struck  shepherd  staggers  in  under  a  new  version. 
He  has  leaned  against  a  great  bowlder,  which  forth- 
with slid  in  its  carved  grooves  and  disclosed  a  sub- 
terranean passage,  whose  farther  darkness  was  aflame 
with  jewels  and  yellow  ingots.  Or  a  huge  white 
snake  has  risen  from  the  ground  at  midnight  to  show 


304      THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

him  the  locus  of  the  treasure ;  or  a  spectral  goat  led 
him  ;  or  he  has  heard,  just  at  high  noon,  the  roar  of 
a  great  subterranean  river.  Et  id  fabularum  genus 
omne.  The  superior  prospector,  besides  swallowing 


awii^H^r-M: 


TABIRA— MAIN    ENTRANCE    TO    THE    GREAT    HALL. 

all  this,  has  improved  upon  it  by  adding  a  "  dying 
confession  "  and  cipher  manuscripts,  and  mystic  maps 
that  "  have  come  down  from  the  old  days."  There 
has  even  been  in  the  Territory,  for  nearly  a  genera- 
tion, a  standing  reward  of  $10,000  to  him  who  should 
discover  the  lost  water  of  Gran  Quivfra. 

This  second   edition  of  the  Quivira  myth  is  not  at 


THE   CITIES   THAT    WERE  FORGOTTEN     305 

first  sight  so  remarkable.  It  seems  merely  the  wonted 
accretion  of  fable  around  the  mysterious.  It  is  only 
when  we  turn  to  history  that  we  can  conceive  the  full 
folly  of  this  perversion — the  bewildering  blunder  of  the 
Cities  that  were  Forgotten.  For  they  once  were  so 
well  known  !  There  is  no  mystery  about  them— as 
well  should  a  Hottentot  explorer  make  a  mystery  of 
Bunker  Hill.  They  are  as  stable  in  history  as  Ply- 
mouth Rock.  And  above  all,  they  have  no  remotest 
kinship  with  the  Quivira.  That  was  eight  hundred 
miles  northeast  of  them.  That  was  an  errant  village 
of  tepees— these,  fortified  towns  of  immemorial  stone. 
That  was  always  Quivira  ;  these  were  always  Abo, 
Cuarai,  and  Tabira.  About  the  only  point  of  resem- 
blance was  that  neither  had  ever  a  particle  of  gold  or  of 
any  other  treasure  whatever.  No  one  ever  confounded 
the  two  until  long  after  the  world  was  old  enough  to 
know  better.  The  ruins  are  Pueblo  ruins,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  ;  and  as  a  matter  of  history  they  are 
ruins  of  the  Tompiros  Pueblos,  a  branch  of  the  now 
extinct  Piro  stock.  The  first  Caucasian  to  penetrate 
the  country  of  the  Accursed  Lakes  was  Francisco 
Sanchez  de  Chamuscado,  who  discovered  these  then 
Jiving  towns  in  1581,  and  set  them  in  history.  A 
year  later  came  Espejo,  who  also  saw  and  described 
these  pueblos — which  Chamuscado  noted  as  the  best 
towns  he  had  yet  found.  In  1598  Juan  de  Oflate,  the 
first  governor  of  New  Mexico,  paid  his  official  visit  to 
these  cities  of  the  salines,  and  received  the  formal 
submission  of  their  people  to  the  Crown  of  Spain. 
The  usual  humane  and  comprehensive  Spanish  policy 
reached  as  well  the  pueblos  of  the  plains  as  those 
of  the  Rio  Grande.  Statecraft  exhaustively  studied 


306      THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN 

their  material,  the  Church  their  spiritual,  needs.  On 
September  9,  1598 — twenty-two  years  before  the 
Mayflower — a  priest  was  assigned  to  these  three 
cities,  and  their  numerous  neighbor  pueblos.  This 
was  Fray  Francisco  de  San  Miguel,  one  of  the  chap- 
lains of  Ofiate's  little  army.  His  station  was  at  Pecos 
(a  pueblo  deserted  in  1840),  whence  he  had  to  ad- 
minister his  enormous  parish  to  the  south.  That  the 
size  of  his  circuit  did  not  hinder  his  missionary  suc- 
cess, nor  that  of  those  who  came  after,  is  written  not 
only  in  the  conversion  of  those  wild  tribes  to  Chris- 
tianity, but  also  in  undecaying  stone.  For  the  huge 
and  mysterious  ruins  at  Abo,  Cuarai,  and  Tabira 
were  merely  Christian  churches,  built  by  the  Pueblos 
under  the  patient  guidance  of  the  Franciscan  fathers, 
and  with  the  aid  of  Spanish  tools.  The  mission 
of  Tabira  was  founded  by  the  fraile  Francisco  de 
Acevedo,  in  or  about  1628  ;  *  and  the  smaller  church 
was  built  soon  after.  In  time  its  needs  outgrew  it ; 
and  some  time  after  the  death  of  Fray  Acevedo,  in 
1644,  the  enormous  newer  church  and  "  convent " 
were  erected.  It  seems  to  have  been  designed  to 
make  Tabira  a  central  mission  ;  and  accommodations 
were  provided  for  the  residence  of  a  considerable 
number  of  priests.  But  these  huge  edifices  were 
never  fully  finished.  The  churches  of  Abo  and 
Cuarai  were  erected  under  the  same  regime  and  at 
about  the  same  time  ;  all  three  aboriginal  cities  were 
as  much  a  part  of  Spanish  missionary  work  and  Span- 
ish history  as  was  Santa  Fe  itself.  The  civil  legisla- 
tion for  their  benefit,  the  slow,  sure  uplifting  of  those 
savage  flocks  by  their  gentle  Franciscan  teachers,  is 

*  Vetancurt  .  Menologio,  p.  260,  etc. 


THE  CITIES   THAT   WERE  FORGOTTEN     307 

not  unrecorded — from  Fray  de  San  Miguel  down 
through  the  resident  missionaries,  Fray  Francisco 
Letrado,  Fray  Acevedo,  Fray  Juan  de  Zalas,  beloved 
Fray  Geronimo  de  la  Liana,  and  all  that  heroic  list. 
There  were  no  fairy-tales  about  the  Manzano  pueblos 
then — nor  long  thereafter.  So  late  as  the  latter  half 
of  the  last  century  an  official  map  of  New  Mexico 
marked  the  ruined  pueblo  of  Tabira  in  its  proper 
place — the  place  since  usurped,  in  popular  supersti- 
tion, by  the  Gran  Quivira. 

That  these  cities  so  suddenly  disappeared  from  the 
world's  knowledge,  we  have  to  thank  not  only  the 
world's  carelessness,  but  also  that  red  history-maker, 
the  Apache.  This  scourge  of  the  plains  was  always 
particularly  attentive  to  the  exposed  cities  of  the  sa- 
lines— which  had  more  pregnable  locations  than  the 
usual  Pueblo  fort-town — and  at  last  overthrew  them. 
The  exact  date  is  not  sure,  but  it  was  positively  be- 
tween 1670  and  1675.  It  was  a  period  of  his  goriest 
activity.  In  1672  he  made  the  massacre  of  Ha-ui-cu, 
one  of  the  Zuni  towns,  two  hundred  miles  west.  In 
1675  he  wiped  out  the  New  Mexican  pueblo  of  Sene- 
cu  (on  the  Rio  Grande,  where  San  Antonio  now 
stands)  killing  Fray  Alonzo  Gil  de  Avila  and  many  of 
his  flock.  And  between  these  two  grim  entries  he 
wrote  his  crimson  autograph  across  the  six  chief 
towns  of  the  Manzano  plains— the  Tigua  pueblos  of 
Chilili,  Tajique,  and  Cuarai,  and  the  Piro  pueblos  of 
Jumancas,  Abo,  and  Tabira.*  The  scant  survivors  of 
the  latter  towns  fled  to  El  Paso,  and  their  score  or  so 
of  descendants,  who  live  to-day  at  Senecii,  in  Chihua- 

*  Vide  Fray  Juan  Alvarez,  MS.  Carta  ;  Fray  Silvestre  Velez  de  Escalante, 
Carta  al  Padre  Morfi,  and  other  undisputed  sources. 


308       THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE   FORGOTTEN 

hua,  are  all  that  is  left  of  the  once  potent  Piro  stock. 
Those  who  escaped  death  at  Cuarai,  being"  Tiguas, 
fled  to  their  brethren  at  Shee-e-huib-bac,  now  Isleta, 
whose  fathers  all  had  come,  according  to  their  tra- 
ditions, from  other  Apache  erased  pueblos  of  the 
Manzano  plain.  Even  the  Jumanos — those  strange 
neighbor  "  Rayados,"  who  were  unique  in  the  South- 
west by  their  fashion  of  tatooing  or  slashing  their 


TAB  IRA 


OUIVTEJRA 


^^-^ 


800    FEET    TO    ONE    INCH. 


GROUND   PLAN   OF   TABIRA. 

A,  A,  A,  A,  tanks  ;  B,  large  church  and  convent  ;  C,  old  church  ;  D,  cemetery  ; 
S,  S,  S,  ancient  acequia. 

faces — were  swept  off  by  that  same  merciless  besom. 
With  1675  the  last  germ  of  aboriginal  life  had  van- 
ished from  that  once  populous  era.  For  a  century 
the  plain  was  utter  desert  and  in  the  undisputed  clutch 
of  the  Apache  ;  and  only  the  huge  vetebrae  of  those 
dead  cities  bleached  in  glaring  sun  and  savage  snows. 
At  last  the  Mexican  post-pioneer  crept  in  ;  and  now 
a  few  hundreds  of  his  children  are  scattered  along 
that  vast  solitude.  The  fence  of  an  enormous  Amer- 
ican cattle-rancho  stretches  almost  to  Tabira.  But  it 
was  too  late  for  the  fallen  cities.  Already  they  were 


THE   CITIES   THAT    WERE   FORGOTTEN     309 

forgotten  ;  and  the  unread  new  neighbors,  instead  of 
rehabilitating  that  heroic  past,  served  but  to  distort  it 
to  an  ignoble  if  romantic  caricature.  That  zeal  which 
made  Christian  conquest,  without  arms,  of  this  sav- 
age wilderness,  has  fared  as  ill  with  the  myths,  as 
have  its  monuments  with  the  facts,  of  latter  days. 
The  one  has  been  "  borrowed  "  to  frame  a  Captain 
Kidd  fable  ;  the  other  to  build  goat-corrals. 

Of  the  three  great  churches,  that  of  Cuarai  is  larg- 
est, having  a  floor-area  of  5,020  square  feet.  That 
of  Tabira  comes  next,  with  4,978  square  feet ;  and 
then  Abo,  with  4,830.  These  figures  are  for  the 
auditoriums  alone,  and  do  not  include  the  extensive 
"  convents  "  attached  to  each,  of  which  that  at  Tabira 
is  most  extensive,  covering  13,377  square  feet.  The 
walls  of  Abo  are  much  the  noblest  and  most  massive, 
and  those  of  Tabira  the  crudest,  though  no  less  solid. 
The  pueblos  of  Abo  and  Cuarai  had  each  a  tiny  but 
sufficient  rill  ;  but  Tabira  is  absolutely  dry.  There 
is  neither  spring  nor  stream  in  thirty  miles.  But  this 
is  hardly  a  rare  thing  among  Pueblo  ruins  ;  and  it  is 
well  known  that  the  aborigines  were  wont  to  "kill" 
their  water  when  forced  to  abandon  a  town,  lest  it  give 
comfort  to  the  enemy.  We  know,  not  only  by  record, 
but  by  eyesight,  of  several  cases  where,  with  infinite 
labor,  the  Pueblos  actually  obliterated  a  spring  to 
keep  it  from  their  savage  neighbors.  But  this  though 
a  probable,  is  not  an  essential,  factor  in  the  problem. 
On  the  brow  of  the  acclivity  east  of  Tabira — and 
connected  with  it  by  a  still  traceable  ditch — are  three 
large  reservoirs  of  earth,  rudely  rimmed  with  stone, 
to  catch  and  hold  the  rain  and  snow.  This  was  the 
waterworks  of  Tabira,  and  an  adequate  system.  The 


310      THE   CITIES   THAT   WERE   FORGOTTEN 

Piros  had  no  animals,  unless  a  few  sheep  and  horses 
already  derived  from  the  Spaniards  ;  and  their  crops 
of  corn,  beans,  and  squashes  grew  then  as  now,  by 
the  annual  precipitation  and  without  need  of  irrigat- 
ing. The  reservoirs  were  ample  for  their  duty — to 
supply  water  for  domestic  use.  It  is  entirely  possible 
that  there  was  also  a  near  spring  which  was  plugged 
at  the  downfall  of  Tabira ;  and  the  least  crazy  of  the 
prospectors  who  still  throw  away  their  means  and 
sometimes  their  lives  there,  are  those  that  seek  the 
water  which  would  make  available  a  great  range  of 
such  pasturage  as  is  now  almost  unknown  in  New 
Mexico. 

Such,  in  brief,  are  the  cities  of  the  salines — the 
Cities  that  Were.  Prominent  and  clear  figures  in  the 
earliest  history  of  our  land,  definite  and  mythless  as 
Hoboken,  they  suddenly  dropped  into  popular  obliv- 
ion. Their  identity  seemed  as  lost  as  though  they 
had  never  been  ;  and  when  their  resurrection  came 
it  was  not  to  be  remembered  but  recreated — not 
rediscovered  but  invented.  For  a  century  their 
weary  bones  have  been  made  to  masquerade  in  a  ro- 
mantic mummery  which  would  be  laughable  had  it 
not  been  the  closing  tragedy  of  so  many  lives.  It  is 
only  within  a  decade  that  the  light  of  record  and  com- 
mon sense  has  been  turned  upon  them,  and  that  Ban- 
delier's  conclusive  researches  have  laid  forever  the 
myth  of  the  Gran  Quivira  and  brought  back  to  the 
memory  of  history  the  cities  that  were  so  long  for- 
gotten. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


31Aug"52EA. 
51952  UJ 


APR?     1955  LU 


REC'D  L 


<• 


OCV28 


REC'D 

31963 


MAYllfO 

i\/ED 
1,1  MAY  '90 . 

AUTO  DISC  AUG 17 '90 


8  1990 


LD  21-95w-ll,'50(2877sl6)476 


_M 

£ 


GENERA 


